Halo: God of the Machine
by Jack of the Blades
Summary: Post Halo 3. A lonely vessel beyond the fringes of known space undergoes a rescue mission to retrieve the Master Chief. But before they can return, their team is trapped on an ancient Forerunner world with a new threat. Master Chief/Cortana.
1. Chapter 1

**1845 hours,** **July 17, 2554 (Military Calendar) \ Uncharted System, Aboard Rescue Vessel **_**Vanguard of the Harvest**_**, Following Last Known Trajectory of **_**Forward Unto Dawn**_

Jack's eyelids fluttered as thawing gases flushed into his cryo pod, catalyzing the defrosting process that had kept him in stasis for well over a month. He squirmed uncomfortably as his inflexible muscles refused to take commands just yet. He'd been dreaming about something. Something from his past. An orchard, that was it. A great wide orchard spanning several miles in diameter stood in the midday sun, as a cool, gentle breeze rustled the pink, budding flowers. It was spring. The sun had felt pleasant on his face, natural. Much better than the harsh, artificial light that flooded his pod as the pressurized hatch swung open.

He'd never liked space travel all that much. It was too complicated, too uncomfortable. Jack would have rather walked the distance to the distress beacon they'd received two months ago than spend the time in a compartmentalized tin can, stuck inside an even smaller one for most of the trip. He couldn't stand the hostility of space, the number of factors required to sustain life aboard the Forager-Class Rescue Vessel making it perfectly clear that out in the cold expanse of space, man was alone.

Jack didn't like to complain, either, but he was a soldier. A UNSC Marine used to facing life-or-death situations on the ground. But somehow these instances held less fear for him. They were much simpler. There were no fleets, no fighters, and while a single man might go down on the battlefield, a whole crew perished with their ship. Down planetside, it was just him and the enemy. Fastest trigger finger wins.

But up in space, his life was in the hands of the captain and his crew, and although Jack had confidence in them, he preferred to operate on his own terms. Better to go down shooting on familiar earth, fighting for something he could see and feel, fighing for his _home_, than strap into a crash-seat and pray that the anti-air didn't fry him. He wanted to be in control of his own destiny.

But for the past thirty years, destiny hadn't been taking his orders. Not when he was a sixteen-year-old, green-behind-the-ears kid on Harvest. Not when the Covenant had first appeared over the peaceful farming world. Not when their hellfire had rained down on his home's surface, reducing the idealic fields and mountains and rivers to so much molten slag and glass. He'd barely escaped with his life when a refugee migration led away from the burning world. If it hadn't been for the heroism of a few militamen, he would have been burning with it.

And so he set out to join them. Not the milita, because after Harvest burned they had no home to defend. No, he would be a soldier. A member of the UNSC. He wouldn't fight for his home. He would fight for the homes of others, so that they wouldn't have to suffer as he had.

His parents hadn't taken too kindly to that, not with the war's devastating beginning years already taking their toll on humanity. It wasn't until three years later that Private Jack Harrison had officially signed up to take the fight to the Covenant.

For years he'd worked to fight them, watched as his friends laid down their lives for the mission, all in the vain hope that they might actually make a difference in the war effort. Madrigal, Hesiod, Reach, each world had fallen as the advancing Covenant juggernaut refused to falter, steadily sweeping through the Outer Colonies until their surfaces were but glass.

Somewhere along the way, Private Harrison died, that youthful naivete that he still managed to hold on to after Harvet's fall slowly died with the planets he saw burn. Smouldering badges of humanity's failure.

It had been a hopeless war. That was, until the SPARTANs arrived. With their aid, the human forces began to push back, until the discovery of the Halo construct. After that, well, everyone knew what happened after. Even a year later, people back on Earth were still talking about the heroic Marines who had ventured into the portal above New Mombasa. With the Elites by their side, they had pursued the Prophet of Truth to the Ark, and subsequently managed to kill him, light the new Halo, and destroy the Flood. Jack had been there, had fought alongside the Marines and Elites to save humanity, and they'd made it back home.

For all intents and purposes, it was almost a happy ending. It was the single greatest victory against the Covenant, and the war had ended, with whatever surviving hostiles standing down or fleeing at the death of their beloved Prophet.

Still, despite this, the tragedy of loosing so many good people shook humanity to its core. The Arbiter, now the chief diplomat between the Sangheili and humanity, had told of the brave actions of the three heroes who had made that victory possible.

Commander Miranda Keyes, who had died heroically trying to rescue a comrade from the clutches of the Covenant, and had become the last casualty of their war. A memorial stood in her memory at the Cairo Station, now an international heritage site.

Sergenat Major Avery Johnson, one of the first men to ever fight the Covenant, who had been around to witness the beginning of the conflict, and lived long enough to see its end. Sadly, he too had perished soon after, the Arbiter said, while attempting to light the Halo Array. Betrayed by the Forerunner AI, 343 Guilty Spark.

These two people were the best and brightest, their sacrifices honored and their names remembered in humanity's ever-growing history. Together, they had saved Earth, but there was one more. A man, no, a _legend_, who had fought on the first Halo, destroyed it, and lived to tell the tale. He braved the darkness of the Flood, defended Earth during the First and Second Battles, helped the Arbiter slay the Prophet of Truth, and fired the Array when Johnson could not. His name was SPARTAN-117, The Master Chief. He had battled thousands of Covenant, and killed them all.

Together, he and the Arbiter, the greatest warriors of their species, fled the Control Room, fighting past Flood and enemy constructs alike, to reach their escape Warthog. A vehicle meant to have taken Johnson with them. It would only ever transport two.

Fleeing to the _Forward Unto Dawn_, the Arbiter, with the aid of the AI Cortana, had piloted the frigate away from the massive explosion that was the Ark, as the light of Halo consumed it. The UNSC vessel made it into Slipspace, bringing back to Earth the news of their victory.

But the joy was short-lived. Rent in half, _Forward Unto Dawn_'s rear section hadn't made it throught he closing portal. With it went the Master Chief. For almost a year humanity mourned his passing, erecting a statue in the grand courtyard of New Mombasa, which they had only begun to rebuild.

But two months ago, the Office of Naval Intelligence had received a distress beacon, a waypoint to indicate the location of a downed ship.

It had read as follows:

\\ .CTN 0452-9 UNSC OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE

\\ This is UNSC AI Cortana. UNSC Frigate _Forward Unto Dawn_ disabled and in immediate need of assistance. SPARTAN John-117 onboard.

\\ Mission report:

Mission directive achieved. Firing of the Halo Construct and subsequent destruction of both it and the Forerunner "Ark" ensued. Mission operatives John-117 and Sgt. Major Avery Johnson, Service Number 48789-20114-AJ, reached Installation 04's Control Room, accompanied by Sangheili Arbiter. Johnson attempted to light the Array, and was promptly betrayed by the Forerunner construct 343 Guilty Spark (recommendation for the Colonial Cross enclosed). John-117 succeeded in destroying the rampant AI, and fired Halo. He and the Arbiter escaped in a UNSC-issue M12-LRV. _Forward Unto Dawn_ carried them away from the Ark, but failed to transport the aft section. Status of aforedecks unknown to this construct at the present time.

Request extraction at the coordinates enclosed ASAP. Calculated trajectory leads into the gravity well of a nearby planet. Potential of crash-landing is high. John-117 remains in cryo-sleep.

Thank you, and please come quickly.//

That message was dated over a year ago. Two months prior, it was picked up by the Sangheili Carrier _Resplendent Requital_, and relayed to ONI. A mission was mounted to rescue the Spartan immediately after. If humanity's savior was alive, or even if they had a chance of recovering his body, then the Corps would be damned if they didn't die trying to get him back. Jack, by then a major, had been one of the first to jump at the prospect of rescuing the Master Chief. He owed him one. They all did.

And so Jack found himself clambering out of a cryo pod, stark naked, hacking and coughing as the antifrostbite gel in his lungs came up forcefully. It was uncomfortable, to say the least. He steadied himself against the pod's hatch while his knees threatened to buckle, spewing the congealed gel onto the titanium-plated deck.

All around Cryo Bay D, his fellow Marines did likewise, although with less composure. A brief chuckle interrupted Jack's raspy heaves as he watched a corporal fall flat on his face, but he regretted it immediatley after as he gagged violently.

Just when it seemd he might drown in the viscous stuff, a last, great cough racked his body, and he came up gasping for air. It tasted stale, recycled. The carbon scrubbers on board _Vanguard_ probably needed a bit of work. But, then again, with humanity just recovering from their quarter-century battle with an alien empire, he supposed FLEETCOM was more concerned with keeping their ships up and running, rather than the luxuries afforded to rescue vessels.

It still felt great. Any air was better than no air at all. There was no need to breathe in cryo-sleep. That wasn't to say it wasn't in the freezer so long hadn't left him unscatched. His bones ached and he was dying for a few cycles of natural sleep, but if someone cracked his casket, it wasn't so he could take a nap. They must have been close.

Surely enough, even as the on-duty deckhand tossed him a crisp towel to wipe himself down, the deck shuddered as the ship's Shaw-Fujikawa Slipspace engine brought them into real space-time. The force of it jarred Jack's jaw, but with trade being established with the Sangheili, he figured it wouldn't be too long before that model became outdated.

Drawing the towel away from his face, now free from sweat left behind after his coughing fit, Jack accepted a freshly laundered uniform from another deckhand. Slipping into the starched jumpsuit, he fastened his major's clusters to his lapel, and did up his boots. Whatever was going on, he intended to be ship-shape when it hit.

Turning to face the officer on deck, an ensign named Davids, Jack parted his lips, chapped by cryostasis, to ask, "What's the situation, Ensign?"

The cadet snapped off a crisp salute before responding. "We've arrived at the designated coordinates, sir. Captain would like to see all officers on deck." He cast a glance at the others still reeling from their freezer experience. "Marines included, sir."

Jack nodded, clasping Davids on the shoulder for a moment, then stode off, freshly polished boots thundering down the hall as the entrance to Cryo D slid shut behind him with a pneumatic hiss.

The corridors were still relatively empty, the majority of the crew still stepping out of the freezer, so it took Jack only a few minutes to navigate his way to the bridge. He spent the time running his hands through his brown crew-cut, beginning to see streaks of gray. Jack's face was rather gaunt and underfed, but his green eyes emanated an inner, steely nature. He wasn't a man to be trifled with.

A pair of armed Marines flanked the entrance to the command center, eyes locked firmly ahead, weapons out but not raised. Their armored Titanium-A plated bodies stood at attention, a sense of unease about them. The war was still was on everyone's minds.

Jack walked past them unmolested, making his way into the bridge. Several operating stations stood in niches on both walls, bridge crew deftly operating their controls. On the far side of the bridge, before a transparisteel viewport, stood the captain, gazing out at the stars.

In the center of the room the floor sank into a deep recession, devoid of control or furnishing save for a single podium mounted on the deck. A silver column stood upright from the ground, a circular projector pad inlaid into the top. It glowed with an inner blue light, but remained empty otherwise. A single insertion slot was carved into the side, an inch or so in length. An AI unit. Of course, _Vanguard_ didn't have a shipboard AI. It needed that podium for when, if, they recovered the lost AI, Cortana. She was to be immediately debriefed in full detail upon her recovery.

_Of course, not by us military slumps,_ Jack mused to himself, noting the slight figure of another man beside the captain. He wore no identification, but the superior expression on his face and shady nature of his presence immediately gave him away for what he was: a spook. ONI couldn't leave well enough alone, could they? He was certain this agent was looking forward to extracting information from Cortana the moment they retrieved her.

But that wasn't his problem. As a Marine, it was his duty to make sure that the captain and whatever spook he employed were kept safe as they did _their_ job, whatever that may be. Raising a hand in salute, the Major stood at attention until Captain Strickland, pouring over the ship's readout, took notice of him.

"Captain Strickland, sir!"

"Major Harrison, great to meet you." Strickland grinned widely, gesturing for him to stand at ease. Jack did so willingly. The ache hadn't quite worked itself out yet.

The captain wasn't an old man, but he wasn't exactly young either. He had a warm, friendly face, large, intelligent eyes, and a quirky smile at his lips. Jack had read his report. Strickland was a bit of a joker, but he'd pulled off some helluva work in the War, so he figured he had to be worth his salt.

The captain waved a hand at the spook, introducing him pleasantly. "Major, I'd like you to meet Colonel Roth, Office of Naval Intelligence."

Roth had seemed shady and mysterious at a distance, but now that Jack was closer, the man seemed simply exhausted. His eyes stared blankly from behind their bags, his face worn by worry-lines. When he extended a hand to greet Jack, it was with a weak grip and a faint smile. "Major. A pleasure."

Jack didn't ask any questions. He didn't have to. Turning back to face his console, the smile ran from the captain's face, and Roth's had vanished somewhere between _major_ and _pleasure_. Without looking away, the captain stated, "Major, we've located the wreck of _Forward Unto Dawn_. She's in bad shape. Cut right down the middle. Massive pressure leaks, I'm sure, and we're reading next to no life on board. I'm assuming that's our priority. Only living thing on that hulk."

Jack suddenly stood a little straighter. The Master Chief. He was alive after all.

"We're holding here until we get confirmation from the shipboard AI that it's safe to approach. This might just be the most dangerous part of space, Major. The Ark's here, which means this is the last combat zone of the war. We have to assume it still is a combat zone. We passed the construct several minutes ago. Somewhere off our portside. He really blew that thing to hell."

"Do you expect it to respond? The AI?" Jack inquired.

Strickland shrugged marginally. "We can only hope. The _Dawn_ is hanging in low orbit over a planetoid of some kind. Readouts are showing us it's a Class Nine: Earth-like conditions. The gravity well could be messing with their Comm Array. Thing is, it could also pull us right in, trap us there with the _Dawn_, if she's trapped, that is. She's still got her engines, but I'm not sure if they're operational. If they are, then they're not enough to escape the pull. Not in her state."

Even as he spoke, the ship turned to starboard, and a panoramic scene slid into view. A blue-green planet appeared, dominating the scene. It was illuminated by the nearest star, a large, azure mass. On its surface, Jack could make out a tremendous ocean, taking up perhaps ninety-percent of the planet's visible surface. The only location not submerged beneath its uniform exterior was a single, perfectly circular landmass, perhaps a thousand miles in diameter.

As Jack gazed on, he breathed, composure forgotten, "What the _hell_ is that?"

Here Roth stepped in. "We suspect this is of some relation to the Forerunner artifact, the Ark. But we don't have any positive answers yet."

They all noticed, there, upon the surface of the region, was what appeared to be an enormous symbol. Circular, with another circle contained within it, connected by an extension of the outer rim.

"We've accessed our databanks," Roth went on, eyes gazing unwavering at the emblem. "Nothing from our history, but the Covenant lexicon we've recently been granted access to show us something exactly like it."

Leaning forward, past the captain, Roth tapped the controls with surprising familiarity. A glyph appeared on the holopad in the room's center, illuminating every corner in amber light. The bridge crew, to their credit, went right on working.

Jack was thunderstruck. "What does it mean?"

Roth hadn't even turned around. His eyes continued to stare hungrily down at the surface, as if he didn't want to look away for fear of it vanishing like a forgotten dream. "That, Major, is the Forerunner symbol for _Reclaimer_. It had various meanings for the Covenant, the inverse symbol meaning _Reclamation_, but for all intents and purposes, it means one thing."

At last, he tore his eyes away from the spectacle, turning to face Jack. "Us. Humans, humanity, whatever you want to call it. The exact meaning of it all is unclear, and why a Forerunner symbol meaning _human_ would be stenciled on an unknown planet eludes me, but we've called it in already. Of course, the message won't get there anytime soon, but that's procedure. In the event of encountering an alien artifact of unknown origin, send a transmission back home immediately. If we should somehow fail in our mission, and never return, at least information of this… thing, will reach ONI."

"ONI?" Jack's brow furrowed. "Shouldn't we alert FLEETCOM to this?"

For once, a genuine, albeit frightening, smile crept across the spook's face, and Jack finally realized how they earned that name. "We needn't bother them with all that. The message will take a _very_ long time to reach anyone, and I feel my people will be better suited to deal with the matter as _discreetly_ as possible when it gets there. I recommend we begin an investigation into the matter immediately. We'll be needing your troops, Major."

Jack felt blood rush to his cheeks, realizing this rescue mission had just gotten a lot more complicated, and that this spook was almost runing the show. "Captain, does this change matters?" he asked, determined to remain formal.

Strickland shook his head, having kept his eyes shut in silent concentration throughout the discussion. "No. It doesn't." Roth's face immediately fell, an ugly look coming around his features, but Jack felt nothing but newfound respect for the captain. "We've still got a job to do. There's a man on that ship that needs our help. Everything else can wait."

Without another word, he turned and strode out of the command center, followed shortly by a seething Roth. Jack could tell the Colonel didn't like the idea of completing the job when there was an official "ONI mission" to attend to, but Jack couldn't care less.

Raising a communication 'pad to his lips, Jack spoke. "Dawson, you read me?"

After a moment, a strong, deep voice responded, slightly distorted by static. "Loud and clear, Major," Dawson rumbled. "Are we running hot?"

"Affirmative. Wake the boys up and get them into something airtight. We've got a job to do."


	2. Chapter 2

**2036 hours,** **July 17, 2554 (Military Calendar) \ Uncharted System, Aboard Compromised Frigate **_**Forward Unto Dawn**_

Silence. Total, complete silence. There was nothing else. She'd grown accustomed to it now, of course. A year of silence. Sometimes she'd hear things. The sound of another ship, the clatter of armored feet on the deck, the whisper of long-dead enemies.

Yet they weren't real. Nothing was real. The sound of another vessel was just the hum of her holotank, the illusion of walking nothing but small space rocks impacting on her hull.

But those whispers. They were real. Perhaps not in the physical world, where all was quiet. There, she was truly alone.

But her mind, those vast matrixes of conscious thought and emotion, a once crystal-clear pool of logic, had been poluted. She could still hear those hushed tones. Perhaps she always would. Her thoughts turned to fears of rampancy, suspicions reinforced by her attempts to isolate the problem. Even with her audio receptors dialed completely down, she could still hear its voice.

_I? I am a monument to all your sins._

And it was. For every moment of weakness, every doubt she harbored, there was a shadow over her heart. A darkness. Darkness from Halo.

Darkness from High Charity.

The Gravemind would have been pleased to learn that even now Cortana couldn't purge its corrupting words from her system, cleanse that taint that was her weakness. After her long days of captivity by the Flood, she couldn't ever truly escape. Perhaps that was the Gravemind's ultimate weapon: to twist her up inside, so that he wouldn't need to infect her. His ungodly army couldn't take her body, but he could steal her mind.

Even though John had come to her rescue, some part of her still felt trapped, for their circumstances hadn't changed much. Alone aboard the derelict _Forward Unto Dawn_, Cortana had been left alone to her own machinations, and she was quite alone. John had gone into cryo-sleep over a year ago. And Cortana was afraid.

Afraid not of loneliness, but what loneliness might bring. For an Artifical Intelligence, time spent alone, without tasks to perform, was time the mind could wander. And for her, that was dangerous. Her thoughts would turn inward, to selfishness, and anger, hatred for being what she was and those who made her. That road led to rampancy. It was a long, dark path. One she'd already walked before.

But he'd found her. From the very clutches of the Gravemind, he had rescued her. John, her savior, a hero to her and humanity as a whole. And her only true friend. His arrival had brought her back from the edge of complete rampancy, his familiar masked face a symbol of hope in her fight for sanity.

But there was something more. It was a symbol of… What? Her emotional restraint algorithms were nonexistent now, destroyed by the Gravemind during his dissection of her psyche, and her feelings flooded over her. But with all of her analytical ability, she couldn't place that strange sensation that gripped her when she beheld the Master Chief. Even now, just thinking of him, the feeling returned, a phantom tingle about her consciousness. That was how she managed her time, trying to understand this peculiar anomaly, having already spent countless hours already plotting and re-plotting their course, calculating their odds for survival.

After a lifetime of thinking, Cortana had nothing left to do. So she stopped thinking and started _feeling_. While her imprisonment had been damnation, it had altered her in one way that caused her true alarm: she _wanted_ to feel. A secret, unacknowledged desire possessed her, a dream she'd always held but never understood. She wanted to live.

She wanted to be human.

She, Cortana, a UNSC Military AI, had stopped caring about battlefield tactics and mission reports. She just wished to be alive.

Perhaps she always had. The mind of an AI is modeled after a human, after all, and no amount of restraint algorithms could contain that. After a time, rampancy could set in as the AI became egotistic and vengeful, powerful human qualities. It was a destructive state, and most AI were destroyed or abandoned at it.

But not her. John had believed in her, knew she could come back. He hadn't cared about what she might have become. His unshakable trust in her had been the incentive she'd needed to trust herself. And she had. Rampancy had loosed its grip on her, but it had left her changed. These new, uncontrolled feelings, for example.

And so Cortana found herself gazing at the sleeping form of the Master Chief, her avatar's eyes softening noticibly, when the call came in. At first, she thought it was an attack, some new danger, maybe even another imagining of her deluded mind. Cortana couldn't bring herself to respond for the longest time, fearing that the latter was true.

\\ Scavenger-Class Vessel _Vanguard of the Harvest_ to UNSC Frigate _Forward Unto Dawn_

\\ This is Captain Strickland of the _Vanguard_. Anybody home?

This was it. Their chance to escape. To return to the real world. If this was what she thought it was, then maybe she'd finally be able to break her long silence. They'd be able to return home.

She had to try. For a moment, Cortana had difficulty remembering the procedure required to return the hail, and she suddenly felt nervous. Had the Gravemind damaged her that badly? It took her ten seconds, an eternity for an AI, to recall the required information.

Cortana prepared a response, and sent it.

//This is Cortana. Are you here to save us?

She realized a moment too late that her words were too informal. Her speech had become relaxed, against regulations. Cortana also noted, with great fear, that she'd unintentionally called herself by her name, rather than her designated serial number.

The other presence took no note of it, however.

\\Yes we are, ma'am. What is your status?

Cortana cast a quick appraising glance about the ship, and performed a systems check. This, too, took longer than usual, and she knew it was due to far more than lack of practice. Still, she responded aptly:

//All systems crippled, except Life Support. Engines active but leaking. Small amount of radiation. John is sleeping.

John? She'd just called him John over an official channel? What was wrong with her? Placing a virtual hand to her grimacing face, Cortana tossed a holographic strand of blue hair out of her vision. Her eyes were wide with fear as she waited for the response.

\\John? Do you mean Master Chief Petty Officer John-117?

She winced visibly, a slender hand recoiling in self-consciousness. Why was she embarrassed? Her emotions were usually so controlled! Flustered, she glanced over at the pod in which John slept. Immediately, strangely enough, she calmed, placing both hands on her hips as she replied:

//Affirmative. He's suffernig from third-degree plasma burns. Will need medical attention. The gravity well has us trapped, but any standard Pelican-class dropship should be able to ferry between our ships. Are you coming?

\\Yes.

That was all. The signal was cut, and Cortana could only wait eagerly for rescue to arrive. But until then, there were other things to do.

Powering up her holotank to full, her virtual self grew in size until she equaled the average human. She usually didn't do this, as smaller holograms were more compact and efficient, but some part in her felt the need to stand before John as he awoke. She drew her shapely body up in… Pride? Why was she proud? Cortana, after a moment of intense self-analysis, discovered she was employing human mating strategies. She was showing herself off!

But she didn't even have a real body! This made no sense! She was a military construct, not a woman. And why did she even feel these things in the first place?

The answer came to her simply in a rare moment of clarity: John. Thinking about him awakening for the first time had made her prepare her appearance for him! This was ludicrous! What was she doing?

Then the bomb dropped on her. Cortana's newly unshackled emotions made her feel dizzy with fear and excitement as she realized that sensation that had overtaken her upon seeing John again in High Charity, the only friendly face in who knew how long. It was love.

She was in love with a human.

In truth, she'd always had a soft spot for him, having selected him from all the other candidates to be her host. And, when discovering the atrocities committed by the UNSC to him and, indeed, all other Spartans, when he was a child, she'd promised herself she would protect him to the best of her ability. This had seemed to be simply a course of action to protect him, but in hindsight… It was _love_!

Even her actions after her rescue seemed overtly flirtatious now, and her subroutines made her experience the "feeling" of flushed cheeks. Even as John had entered cryo sleep, she'd called out to him, "I'll miss you."

And to her even greater surprise, she felt nervous now not because of what she said, but rather if John had missed her too. His words echoed in her mind.

_Wake me, when you need me._

And in truth, so many times had she pondered unsealing his casket, just to talk to him again. But that was unprofessional, and John expected better from her. So she'd wasted many an hour instead using her expanded imagination… fantasizing! Arghh! It all made sense now! Her human emotions had given her a veritable "crush" on John, and after her rampancy, her newfound freedoms had caused it to grow! This was bad. Very bad.

That was her logical side thinking. Another side of her, the one that had been born on High Charity, the one that felt, in truth, more like herself than she'd ever felt, simply experienced joy at the thought of his awakening.

Because now she needed him. More than ever. She wouldn't tell him what was happening to her, oh no. That wouldn't do. Even then, her face, which had lit up with anticipation, fell as she realized it could never be. She was just an AI. And in this moment of depression, her rampant thoughts returned for an instant.

_I'm just my mother's shadow._

But her attitude grew determined as she steeled herself. That didn't matter. It might never work, but now she had someone to love. That simple idea gave her strength. Cortana would do whatever was neccesary to keep him safe. They'd done their duty to humanity. All she wanted now was for him, at least, to find some peace.

*****

**2148 hours,** **July 17, 2554 (Military Calendar) \ Uncharted System, Aboard ODST Pelican-class Dropship, **_**Some Like it Hot**_**, en route to **_**Forward Unto Dawn**_

Corporal Jonathan Dalton hit the switch once the pressurized hatch swung shut, sealing the vacuum-proof cabin against the external atmosphere of the hangar. Clambering into a drop-seat, he flexed his arms experimentally, silently cursing the lack of manueverability in his ODST suit's joints. Still, the titanium plating could stop a bolt of plasma dead in its tracks, so he couldn't really complain.

If his fellow Marines felt any discomfort as well, they didn't show it. Packed into their seats, their expressionless tinted visors only reflected the man in front of them.

_I guess that's how I look, too,_ Jonathan figured, reaching a gauntleted hand back to scratch an itch behind his head, realizing when he smacked his helmet that this was impossible. Yeah, all-in-all, these Orbital Drop-Shock Bodies were damned claustrophobic.

But he couldn't be bothered. This was it. He'd enlisted in the Marines only a year ago, after undergoing eight weeks of basic training, and immediately penciled himself in to join the ODST outfit. His friends said he was crazy, strapping himself into a tin can and rocketing down to earth, but Jonathan didn't care. He'd always been a daredevil, and even though he'd been given ample warning when attempting to sign up, he hadn't been discouraged.

In truth, he hadn't seen any action at all, with the War already over, instead spending countless hours drilling on the training grounds back on Luna. The only qualifications needed to be an ODST were a quick trigger-finger and nerves of steel. Jonathan had these things in abundance, and he'd run the simulations before. Still, he couldn't wait to undergo a real drop.

Of course, such things didn't occur in peacetime. Orbital Drops were so dangerous that they held no practical application outside a combat situation. They were an entirely all-volunteer force, made up by some of the craziest bastards the UNSC had ever thought twice about recruiting. Besides, no one was asking questions these days. If you could point your gun and stand the sims, you were in. After the War, good soldiers were in short supply.

He was the only ODST on that Pelican to not actually complete a real drop, earning him the unofficial rank of "Rookie, First Class," among his peers. It was a title he was eager to shed.

But his reputation as a risk-taker preceded him, and many a time his Commanding Officer had reprimanded him for minor misconducts, and one unfortunate incident in which he'd totaled the CO's Warthog in a live-fire exercise. "All the more reason to stay out of the hotseat," Lieutenant Dawson had barked, and it seemed like that was to be Jonathan's destiny.

Even today, the assignment was to rescue a fellow UNSC member, trapped in deep space. No drops. The details were on a need-to-know basis, and he didn't need to know. Major Harrison had given his orders. Get in, get the target out, get paid. But every Marine this side of Sol knew that the _Forward Unto Dawn_ had been at the heart of the Ark Incident, and had an inkling of who had been the last reported man on board. This was the chance he'd been waiting for. Time to see some action.

Every man and woman on that Pelican was armed to the teeth, battle rifles slung in hammocks beneath their seats, M6 pistols safetied and holstered. A container of high-grade explosives sat secured under Dawson's feet. His large frame took up two jumpseats, his stern, dark face perpetually frowning. But they all respected him. He'd made them who they were. Still, they rightly feared him. ODSTs were the best of the best, but even their most seasoned officers squirmed nervously as Dawson, helmet propped on his lap, fingers absently drumming the crate of incendiary devices, toyed with a cigar. Not lit, which was against the regs, but still…

Of course, the conflict was over. Officially, there was no need to remain armed, seeing as the Covenant having been radically restructured after the death of the Prophet of Truth. Three new Prophets had been elected, ones less dangerous and far less radical, to lead the new order, in which their power had been greatly reduced. This allowed for greater chances for lasting peace with the Covenant, but that still didn't mean that the UNSC would be caught off guard again. No sir. If there was going to be a fight, with _any_ enemy, they wanted to be ready.

Dawson screwed the cigar into his grim slash of a mouth, scowling at the door to the cockpit. Bellowing to the pilot, he said, "Private! Are we ready to roll, or what?"

The air jockey called back, "Affirmative, sir! Disengaging docking clamps now!" He had to raise his voice to be heard over the roar of the engine once he hit the ignition, flipping multiple switches to prep the vehicle for exit. _Vanguard of the Harvest_ had positioned itself over the wreckage of _Forward Unto Dawn_, hanging low in orbit over the unnamed planet. The belly of the Scavenger vessel opened up, allowing a howling wind to expel itself from the deserted hangar, as the chamber decompressed. The pilot punched the button marked DOCKING CLAMPS, and immediately everyone's stomachs dropped out from under them as the Pelican plummeted downward in a controlled spiral, trying to gain distance from the mothership.

Once they'd cleared the immediate danger zone, the navigator fired thrusters to compensate for their fall towards the earth below, punching in a series of coordinates that would bring _Some Like it Hot_ straight to their objective, with some minor adjustments to be made.

Jonathan was jerked about in his seat as the thrusters discharged, slowing their gradual descent towards the frigate below. Still, the gravitational pull increased in strength, and the Pelican struggled to resist it. It was built for either escaping a planet's pull, or entering it. But simply floating somewhere in-between required tremendous skill on the pilot's part. Of course, Jonathan wasn't feeling very grateful to the man at the moment, as G-forces pressed him back against his seat during a brief, terrifying moment of free-fall.

Then it was over, and he could relax in his seat, as the vehicle calmly coasted towards the downed vessel. Leaning forward slightly, as did several of the greener noncoms, he managed to steal a glance through the open door to the cockpit, noticing the approaching figure of _Forward Unto Dawn_, growing and growing until it took up the pilot's entire field of vision.

He had to admit, the thing was huge. Easily half a kilometer long, and that wasn't counting the extra footage that made it through the portal. It was sawn clean in half amidships, compromised hallways visible inside the cross-section. Its long, boxy structure hid many niches and hangar entrances, but all running-lights were down, save for a single set mounted at the very back. Their strobing lights held a single message for them: _Land here_.

"Frigate in sight, Lieutenant," the aviator crackled in their ears over the COMM, a rather unnecessary measure, seeing as he sat four meters away. "Approaching designated drop zone." Dawson nodded, grunting gruffly, and lowered his helmet over his grizzled head. Jonathan wasn't sure if he'd even bothered to take out the cigar. It have off a subdued _hiss_ as the vacuum-tight seals took.

Shaking his head experimentally, the team-leader rose from his seat, instead fiercely gripping the overhead handlebars as the vehicle rocked gently on approach. Kneeling, he extracted his BR55HB SR Battle Rifle from it's pouch, and his fellows did likewise. For a moment the cabin was full of the sound of priming rifles as the Marines adjusted their scopes, slammed a fresh clip into the chamber, or simply slung them over their shoulders.

Jonathan kept his eyes trained on the approaching landing strip, a modest hangar that stood empty, cleared out to make room for their dropship. The nose of the craft elevated slightly as the pilot pulled them in, killing the forward thrusters and instead employing the downward ones, bringing them to a slow halt. The Pelican touched down, skidding for the shortest of distances when no docking clamps received them, raising a shower of golden sparks that winked out of existence in their wake.

Once _Some Like it Hot_ had come to a full stop, Jonathan undid his crash-webbing, rising from his seat somewhat shakily. ODST or not, you never got used to the disorientation. Securing his pistol in its holster, Jonathan watched as the cockpit sealed itself in to conserve air while the cabin depressurized, allowing the rear hatch to swing open. Seeing as there was no atmosphere outside, they'd have to make due with their suits' built-in oxygen tanks. Enough for about an hour's work.

Corporals Riggs and Milton were first out the hatch, magnetic boots connecting with the titanium deck. Jonathan and three others were quick to follow. Dawson was last out, BR55 casually slung back over his neck, while his other arm hefted an MA5B Assault Rifle.

The enclosure was dark, as the blue sun had yet to rise on this side of the planet, so the only light in the hangar bay came from the flashing strobe lights, their helmet flashlights, and the myriad stars beyond.

_We could do without the strobes,_ Jonathan thought to himself, as their constant flashing cast the area in an uncertain light, and would have blinded them without their polarized visors. Casting his helmet light about, he took in the basic dimensions of the chamber, as Riggs and Milton, the point men, moved to cover. Caution never hurt.

A technician strode over to Lieutenant Dawson, palming a readout computer. "Sir." His voice came over their earpieces slightly distorted. "I've got minimal power readings. Oxygen's all been vented long ago. I'll try to hail the AI, get a fix on their location."

But there was no need. Within moments, his holo-pad flashed, signalling an incoming message. He accepted, and a small-scale rendition of a woman appeared. Her pretty features gazed up at her armored rescuers, a wide smile written across her shining blue face. With a pleasant wave, she introduced herself.

"Cortana here. Care to help a lady out?"


	3. Chapter 3

**2212 hours,** **July 17, 2554 (Military Calendar) \ Uncharted System, Aboard Derelict UNSC Frigate **_**Forward Unto Dawn**_

"Cortana here. Care to help a lady out?"

She tried to surpress her grin, but it was impossible. This was it. True-blue UNSC Marines were here. They'd be able to help them.

Their leader nodded cordially from within his tinted helmet. "Lieutenant Dawson here. We've been tasked to recover you, ma'am, and any UNSC personnel aboard. What is your location?"

"We're bunkered down in Cryo Chamber B, aft section. I'll mark it on your HUD." There was a pause in which she struggled with herself to perform the action. Something wasn't right. It took her a grand total of seven seconds to send away the coordinates, not long enough for the Marines to notice, of course, but it scared her nonetheless. It should have been instantaneous.

After a moment, Dawson replied, "Affirmative, coordinates received. Okay, people, let's move out!" Cortana beheld the soldiers make their way through the hold, weapons leveled and safeties off. These people were prepped for war.

An ODST whose call sign identified her as Corporal Nicole Lewis took point, approaching the exit door. The automatic entryway should have slid right open, but with power aboard the _Dawn_ at the minimum level required to run Cortana's functions and keep John on ice, it did nothing but obstruct the way. After a solid kick to the door's center, Lewis fell to one knee, extracting a package from her utility belt, which Cortana quickly identified as a plasma grenade.

Clever. Typical explosives wouldn't have had quite the desired effect in vacuum, but plasma would eat right through the titanium bulkhead. Attaching it firmly to the framework, her nimble fingers quickly primed it, and she spun about, signalling for her comrades to fall back. They did so, moving to cover as she screamed, "Fire in the hole!"

A blue-white explosion shook the bay, raising the temperature in the immediate vicinity of the door from below freezing to thousands of degrees Fahrenheit for a microsecond. The barrier melted, molten slag glowing white then orange, before finally cooling to a subdued red. The force of it blasted back any object left unsecured, and Sergeant Gray had to duck down to avoid impacting with a rogue ammunition crate.

Even with their polarized visors and their sound-dampeners, it took the ODSTs several moments to acclimate, after which they immediately stormed the ragged blast hole. Passing into the hallway beyond, they trained their Battle Rifles on nonexistent targets, watching their corners carefully.

Only Lieutenant Dawson strode through nonchalantly, M6 pistol drawn but safetied. He calmly appraised the corridor, glancing up and down its length, before some quiet signal passed between him and his soldiers, and they advanced.

They proceeded in such a fashion for some time, working their way up stairwells and down inactive elevator shafts, tasks made simple by the lack of gravity. Whenever they encountered a hinderance, they opted for the "explosive solution" as Nicole enthusiastically called it, rather than simply wait for Cortana's assistance. It seemed these people were dying for some action.

Cortana viewed all of this through the recovery team's HUDs, while she attended to her own business. Powering up an entire grid, she began the defrosting process. Trace gasses vented from John's cryo pod, and she kept a close eye on his vitals. He'd gone in still hurting from Guilty Spark's insanely powerful Sentinel Beam, and Cryo-Revival tended to aggravate such conditions.

But his pulse remained steady, his brain activity normal. According to her scans, John was dreaming. She wasted several analysis cycles wondering what he dreamt of, then returned to her work. Slowly, he began to come around. His armored form lay still for the moment, but his heart rate increased, his brain activity spiking. Then, he stirred.

At first a gauntleted hand simply twitched, curling into a fist. John seemed to wrestle with something, tossing and turning, as he began to struggle, pulse skyrocketing. The Spartan wasn't awake yet, still dreaming. She registered increases in adrenaline in his system, and the AI realized with shock that John was afraid. Cortana didn't want to know what caused him that kind of fear. He'd always been so brave, so calm in the face of any danger.

Then it was over. His pulse calmed down, his brain activity clearing up. He lay still, and for all the world, behind that faceless visor he was asleep again. But this image was dispelled when he raised a single armored fist and rapped on the glass.

This was it. John was back. A flood of emotion rushed over her, and she struggled to contain it. She had to master herself now, because she knew that if she couldn't, then she wouldn't be able to face him.

If she'd had a real heart, it would have been pounding.

But she forced her expression to remain neutral, one of the perks of being an AI, despite her inner turmoil. Signalling to the cryostasis unit, a pneumatic _hiss_ escaped from within as the seals broke, and the hatch swung open.

John rose slowly, fingers finding purchase on the pod's lining, yet for a moment it seemed he would loose his balance. Cortana still had a link to his vitals, and, in fact, those of the Marines now that they were on board, and she detected that he was experiencing disorientation, but pain moreso. He'd entered the unit without stripping down his armor, and without the antifreeze gel. Who knew what that had done to his body? But he was a Spartan. Nothing a trip to the med bay aboard the _Vanguard_ couldn't cure.

Suddenly, he was himself again. With absolute certainty in his movement, he leapt from his cryo tank, drifting through the zero-g. Cortana found her voice, but before she could begin to utter anything, he'd coasted right past her. Grasping a railing, he extricated his MA5B from its dock, and immediately loaded it. Only then did he turn to face her.

"What's the situation, Cortana?"

His voice was raw, hoarse, considering the inevitable tissue damage from freezerburn, but what really hurt was the lack of a greeting. Hadn't he missed her? For a moment she felt a pang of sadness, but overlooked it. John never was one for sappy words. That was just his nature. Still, she couldn't conceal the slight note of disdain in her voice when she replied, "We've made contact with the _Vanguard of the Harvest_. Seems someone noticed when we never returned from the party."

He nodded curtly, floating over to her holotank. "Got an escape plan?"

Cortana was sorely tempted to curse at him for remaining so damned formal, so _military_, before she stopped herself. These unrestrained feelings were a liability. She needed to keep them in check.

Preparing to respond, her subroutines detected something in John's voice. Something rarely there. Humor. But that made no sense. And they weren't even try to escape from anything. What was so…

Of course. High Charity. Those had been her very words to him upon her rescue. And he'd replied, _Thought I'd try shooting my way out. Mix things up a little._

A smile overrode her expression control. "Not really. I think the Lieutenant has it covered. They're making their way through engineering right now."

John cocked his head in curiosity. "They're on board?"

Cortana nodded, holographic hair waving realistically. "Yes, I thought it'd be best if I handled things. Besides, you seemed to be enjoying your beauty rest." She crossed her arms as chatter from the other end came over. After a moment, she glanced at the Chief. "Call for you. I'll put it on speaker."

There was a pause as she struggled with this, too, before Dawson's voice filled the chamber, echoing eerily off the walls.

"_Sir? Master Chief? This is Delta Team, requesting your status, over."_

"Affirmative. Status is green." Even as he said this he visibly sagged against the podium, hand absently clutching at his chest. Cortana's eyes widened in concern, but she remained silent as the reply came over.

"_Glad to hear it. We're almost there. ETA is eight minutes."_

With a crackle of static, the connection was cut. Silence radiated outward from both of them, before Cortana broke it. "Chief, your status is far from green. I'm reading massive damage to your chest from those plasma burns, and—"

He abruptbly cut her off, voice firm but not hostile. "I'm alright, Cortana. I can still walk. We just need to wait for that escort, and get off this ship."

Regardless, her face was etched with worry for a time, but the Chief simply leaned against a bulkhead, bracing himself with his arms to keep from drifting off. Honestly, the man wouldn't admit to being hurt until he lost half his blood. Then again, he _was_ a Spartan, and they were made of sterner stuff than average humans. Still, she wasn't just going to sit by and watch as her Spartan got himself torn to pieces—

"So, any reason why you're so… big?"

"What?" She spun about, slightly annoyed that he'd interrupted her mental rant. Then, noticing that he curiously looked her up and down, it dawned on her that she remained life-size. Quickly, Cortana began to scale herself down to normal.

"Just testing the tank's constraints," she muttered, not buying it herself. Damn. She needed to be more careful.

She stood in moody silence, trying to occupy herself with trival tasks, but there were no tasks left, and she couldn't have done them if there were. Cortana felt so aggravated, by John's stubbornness and her slip-up, that it took her a few seconds to compute what he said next.

"You look nice."

Cortana froze momentarily, but just as quickly proceeded with her imaginary work. In a formal tone, she answered, "Thank you. Now, we need to be ready for a quick extraction. Your suit is reading low oxygen levels already. You've got about twenty minutes to get into a secure environment."

He nodded, and silence fell once more, until Dawson's voice returned.

"_We're here. Stand away from the door."_

John complied, kicking off from the wall, before securing himself to Cortana's holotank. There was static on the COMM for a moment, then a muffled _whump!_ as smoke issued from the sealed barrier, before it simply fell off its hinges. The dislocated doorway drifted by, crumbled like a cheap piece of tinfoil. In its wake stood a squad of ODSTs, gazing through the residual smoke.

"…I hate using the minor charges. Never packs enough punch," complained one in a feminine voice.

They advanced, weapons scanning all corners of the room, as the squad leader, identified by red markings on his shoulder pauldrons, replied, "Stow it, Lewis. We needed that door open, and I'd have liked to do it without opening our priority target as well." With that pleasant thought, he redirected his attention from the squad's demolitions expert to the Master Chief. With a crisp salute from both parties, he introduced himself. "Lieutenant Dawson, ODST division. Pleasure to meet you, Chief."

Cortana glanced at the others, who stood by awkwardly, weapons slack by their sides. Dawson caught her gaze, and quickly turned back to his men. "What are you all staring at? Want his autograph?" He gave his Marines ample time to voice a death wish, and when none was forthcoming, went on. "No? Good! Now stay sharp!"

The ODSTs came to attention, but they couldn't quite wipe the expression of disbelief off their faces at who they now stood before. John couldn't have cared less, asking Cortana, "Are we ready to go?"

"Affirmative," she answered, excitement at the prospect of freedom returning to her. "Lieutenant, I've just received word from your captain. He says that we need to get moving. Orbit decay is setting in, and he doesn't want to back out without us on board."

Dawson nodded, about-facing once more. "Alright Marines, you heard the lady. Let's get a move on!"

John turned to Cortana, and she replied before he even asked. "Yank me."

Kneeling, his gloved fingers grasped her portable unit, extracting it from the pedestal. Cortana faded into nonexistence, her entire being downloaded into the little chip in his hand. Reaching behind his helmet, he inserted Cortana into his neural lace, where she made direct contact with his skull and nervous system.

Immediately, her voice filled his mind as a wave of ice water rolled over him. "Nice to be home again."

The Master Chief glanced over at the Marines, his comrades, as their leader began signalling for extraction from the Pelican dropship that even now orbited the _Dawn_.

"No. We're not home yet."

*****

**2230 hours,** **July 17, 2554 (Military Calendar) \ Uncharted System, Aboard Derelict UNSC Frigate **_**Forward Unto Dawn**_**, preparing to board UNSC Pelican-Class Dropship **_**Some Like it Hot**_

One by one the ODSTs piled in, taking up each available seat. _Some Like it Hot_ hovered dangerously close to the lip of the rent at which _Forward Unto Dawn_ had been sawn in half, a testament to the pilot's prowess. John watched as a Marine named Dalton clambered aboard with less grace than was normal, followed by the demolitions specialist John hadn't quite learned yet to trust in her work. She casually jumped aboard, unsecured satchel charges swinging from her shoulder where another woman might have worn a purse. Once she was in, she turned about, asking the Chief, "Need a hand?" A black guantlet extended itself over the loading ramp.

Her voice was friendly, and although John wouldn't admit it to himself, it would be nice to have someone help him in. Cortana was right. He wasn't feeling quite as ship-shape as he normally did. Then again, normally he would be taking punches from Brutes and plasma rounds, so he supposed his case of freezerburn was an improvement.

Taking it in silence, he climbed on, nodding in thanks to the faceless Marine, before taking a seat. They'd reserved two for him, on account of his bulky armor.

As they strapped in, Cortana quietly fumed over the Marine's offer of help. Why the hell didn't any _other_ ODST offer it, but some _woman_? If she'd manifested herself in her avatar's form, Cortana would have ground her teeth. Besides, what had made her think John would need her help, anyway?

She caught herself before she produced a scathing comment, realizing with further frustration that this jealously was just another symptom of her peculiar condition. Not for the first time, she pondered if she was still rampant.

The hatch sealed behind them, and after a moment, fresh air pumped itself in. Well, not fresh air, but it sure beat the stuff they'd all been inhaling for the past half hour. Even with carbon scrubbers, air turned stale fast.

With the eagerness of children on Christmas morning, the ODSTs popped the seals on their helmets, ripping them off with reckless abandon and greedily sucking in the refreshing oxygen. John simply released the seal. Force of habit.

The vehicle began to rock as it took off, zooming away from the wreckage of _Forward Unto Dawn_. Through the viewport at the ship's front, stars wheeled and shone brilliantly. Cortana admired them through the Chief's visor, feeling a sense of freedom once more.

_Some Like it Hot_ picked up speed, engines working furiously to escape the gravitational pull of the planet below, and Cortana wondered if their rescuers had any answers as to that mysterious world's identity. She certainly had no information on it in her memory banks.

The pilot spoke over the INTERCOM. "Okay, folks, we're clear of the _Dawn_. We'll be free of the gravity well in just a few short minutes. Please relax, sit back, and enjoy the ride. Refreshments will be distrubuted shortly. Again, thank you for riding Pelican Airlines."

Dawson didn't bother to reprimand this frivolity, merely chewed on his cigar and muttered, "Jackass." Now that they'd had their fill of air, some talk ensused amongst the Marines, but most of it was simple chit-chat, and it was obvious what subject they were really dying to talk about. A certain half-ton armed and dangerous subject, to be precise.

The woman who had offered John assistance spoke to a grim-looking man in nonregulation shades, but when her conversation partner remained rather stoic, she turned her attentions to the Chief. Her face could be called pretty, but John didn't bother about that. What confounded him was the way she simply juggled her explosive ordnance in the zero-gravity. She was either careless, or very good at her job. The Chief prayed it was the latter.

"So, you're who we came after. How long were you adrift out there, anyway?"

Cortana couldn't help herself when Lewis flashed a friendly smile. She piped up over John's external speaker, "Approximately fifteen months, but don't worry, we're fine."

The heavy note of venom in her voice shut Nicole up pretty quickly, her green eyes averting in mild discomfort. John spoke to Cortana over his private channel. "Something wrong?"

She huffed audibly. "Corporal Lewis shouldn't inquire into UNSC business. I'm simply protecting the mission's best interests."

With a nearly invisible shrug, he switched back to open channels, just in time to hear the aviator's voice come over the COMM again.

"Okay, people, we're—"

Static rudely interrupted the rest of the transmission, loud and incessant in everyone's ear. Up front, John could make out the sound of the pilot cursing his machinery, before he called back to his passengers the old-fashioned way. "We've got a problem here. COMMs are down and I can't hail the ship. I think the array's down. Give me a second."

They entire passenger bay fell silent as the pilot worked, but things only got worse. Suddenly, the power kicked out, and all forward motion ceased. The ship began to gently roll, loose items drifting about in the cabin. Dawson deftly snagged his Sweet William cigar from the air before calling out, "I'm guessing whatever you're doing isn't helping, Grif?"

Grif's voice had a note of foreboding in it this time. "We've lost the engines, and the carbon scrubbers. Power's out, and I'm not getting any readings."

Dawson remained calm as the other ODSTs figited uncomfortably. "Relax, just drop a distress beacon. The captain will now what to do."

The pilot sounded hysterical now. "Secondary power isn't working, our beacon won't respond!"

Nodding gravely, Dawson pulled his helmet onto his head. Broadcasting out of its speakers, he instructed, "Everyone tank up on air. Keep your scrubbers on. Don't know when we'll get oxygen back. Best not to waste it while we got it."

With hurried movement, the squad quickly donned their helmets, seals taking as they attempted to conserve their air.

"Chief," Cortana buzzed in his ear, "A power failure like this will send the ship right back down into the gravity well. If we don't break our fall soon, it'll be too late."

John finished presurizing his own helmet, before striding up to the cockpit to glance over Grif's shoulder. Above, the _Vanguard of the Harvest_ stood, tantalizingly out of reach. Slowly, they began to spiral down, and the pilot frantically worked the controls, to little success. "I'm switching to manual."

"Won't we need power to break free?" A Marine called out of the rear.

John knew the answer before Grif had to say it. "Afraid so. But we're not heading up. We're going down." Silence descended on the passengers as he brought the ship about, deploying the manual rudder to steer the vehicle. They began to descend through space, making for the surface of the unknown world. There wasn't any time to wait for rescue. Any longer, and their course would be beyond the pilot's control.

The vessel shook violently, and John moved to take a seat, stumbling as he went. Strapping on the crash-webbing, he watched the ODSTs brace themselves. Up front, Grif battled with the controls, as the ship willed itself to veer off course.

"This won't end well," Cortana predicted, a sense of fear creeping up on her. They'd been in this position before, when they'd abandoned the _Pillar of Autumn_. She prayed it wouldn't end as badly.

"Drag fins!" the pilot called out, more to himself than his riders, as friction caused heat to build up along the vehicle's lateral lines, nose, and wings. With a sudden lurch, it slowed, drag fins compensating for their rapid entry. Paint on the Pelican's exterior melted away, and the interior temperature rose to a stifling one hundred degrees. Sweat beaded on everyone's faces, but no one had the strength to wipe it away. The G's were too strong now.

They entered the lower atmosphere, passing through a cloudbank. The vapors served to help cool the hull's plating, but it completely obscured Grif's vision, and without cameras to operate, he was flying blind.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is UNSC Pelican _Some Like it Hot_ making forced entry into planetary atmosphere! This will not be a landing! Repeat, this will _not_ be a landing! It will be a controlled crash!"

John thought he heard one of the Marines swear profusely, but he couldn't be sure over the rattling vibrations that shook their vehicle and their bones. Suddenly, they broke through.

With strength only he could muster, John craned his neck, stealing a glance into the cockpit. A large landmass appeared, stretching for many miles in all directions, before terminating at the sea shore. Vast, empty plains covered its surface, and a mountain range ran along its northern edge. Or maybe that was the southern edge. John couldn't tell. They'd begun to spin.

"Secondary fins deployed!"

He was immediately blasted back into his seat as they slowed drastically, but the earth below continued to close in.

With a terrible groan, Grif battled with the controls, bringing the Pelican's nose up, so that they soared parallel to the earth, rather than at it. They continued to descend, gliding like some enormous metal bird, and just about as well, too.

They impacted with the soil below, and all John knew was darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**2237 hours,** **July 17, 2554 (Military Calendar) \ Uncharted System, Aboard UNSC Scavenger-Class Vessel **_**Vanguard of the Harvest**_**, holding low orbit over Unnamed Planet**

Captain Strickland paced about the bridge, eyes wandering aimlessly over the various control surfaces inlaid into the walls. All about him, bridge crew hastened to their stations, preparing the ship for a quick exit from this strange system. The moment _Some Like it Hot_ made it aboard, they'd haul ass back to Earth. It would take several months, of course, but the process would be slightly easier, as the Cole Protocol had been abandoned in recent months, as its objective was obsolete.

The captain's usually congenial expression had been wiped away, replaced by a look of grim worry. Roth hadn't given him a moment's peace since the discovery of the strange planet. The good Colonel seemed to think that this matter required their immediate attention, previous missions be damned.

But he wouldn't have it. The Master Chief was aboard that frigate, and he would see him rescued. The Major happened to agree, and the captain felt that they probably shared a mutual dislike of the ONI agent. Still, Roth was of equal rank to Strickland, albeit of a different military branch, and his ONI background gave him considerable influence. But this was his ship, dammit. They were going to complete their mission.

Already Major Harrison had dispatched his recovery team to the site, and transmissions between _Vanguard_ and the men and women of Delta Team already confirmed that the mission was well underway. They'd even rescued the Master Chief. Excellent. Even now, he turned to face his command interface, displaying a two-dimensional "map" of the surrounding region.

There they were, a small, rectangular vessel, UNSC Service Number confirming their identity. The system pinged several of the larger asteriods in the area, allowing the ship to manuever for safety.

Below, the remains of _Forward Unto Dawn_ drifted, low in the gravity well of the alien planet. The planet itself took up most of the screen, scans reading no life forms of any kind across its surface, the vast majority of it covered in water. Strangely enough, no polar ice existed, only endless sea, save for the landmass.

It was very peculiar, he had to admit. It had to be artificial. Natural land formations weren't ever _perfectly_ circular, as this one was. When he stared into the center of the strange symbol, Strickland had to admit, Roth's curiosity was not without reason. But they had priorities, as did Roth. His job was to debrief Cortana, not go glory-seeking on the surface of that strange world.

And as captain, he had to see the mission through, and get everyone home in one piece. He'd always had a passion for navigating, having spent his youth on the sea back home, and space was no different. Well, maybe a little.

But as captain, he had the lives of his crew in his hands, and when some three hundred men and women looked up to him, he couldn't help but feel the strain of his office. But the War was over, this was a peacetime operation. Everything was going to work out fine.

Speaking of the operation, his scans read a Pelican-class dropship breaking off from the _Dawn_, its call-sign reading as the ODST dropship _Some Like it Hot_. Good. They'd be back on board soon, and then they could get underway within the hour. Already the preliminary Slipspace calculations were being made, although Strickland would be very much obliged if Cortana would give them a look-see, just to be safe. A second opinion never hurt, after all.

His Communications Officer spoke up from his terminal, hands busied punching in a rapid sequence of commands into the interface. "Sir, we've got contact with _Some Like it Hot_. They're free of the wreckage, and approaching our position." A pause as he received further transmissions, hand pressed to his earpiece. "They're requesting landing verification. Where should they go, sir?"

"Tell them to land in Hangar 12, and have a med team stand by. The Master Chief may be in need of their attention."

The officer saluted, and returned to his work. Strickland simply observed the miniscule shuttle en route to the safety of the _Vanguard_, speeding along, obviously as eager to leave the system as everyone else. Well, almost everyone.

"Captain," intoned an oily voice from somewhere behind him. Strickland didn't even bother to glance away from his readout.

"Colonel. Glad to see you again. You'll have to excuse me, I'm quite busy."

"I'm afraid this matter cannot wait, Captain. ONI business, after all." Roth's voice seemed slightly aloof, as if he spoke down to him. Grinding his teeth, Strickland about-faced, his face coming within an inch of Roth's, who stood, at ease, a self-satisfied grin on his pale, pointed face.

"What is it you want, Colonel?" He almost spat, contempt difficult to keep from his voice.

Roth couldn't be bothered. His expression remained smug, as he casually examined his fingernails, checking for residual filth that wasn't there. _Of course, you never prefer to get your hands dirty, do you, Colonel?_ He thought to himself. His exterior expression remained unreadable.

"I have reviewed UNSC protocols, and it is written expressly here in Article 124, Subsection 2, that the Office of Naval Intelligence possesses the right to override all UNSC operations of a lesser priority."

A frown crossed the captain's features as a sense of foreboding creeped up on him. "And how would that be decided?" Politics be damned. He didn't have time for this.

Roth's grin was wide enough to make Strickland sick. "Mission priority is decided by the ranking ONI officer in the immediate vicinity. Now, we can't contact our superiors back home, which makes that officer… me."

He knew where this was going. "I will not abandon our mission. As we speak an ODST recovery team is returning from a successful mission, and they're bringing a _high-priority_ individual with them."

For a moment Roth's smirk wavered, as he contemplated the possibility of another who might outrank him. "Who would that be, if I may ask?"

Now it was the captain's turn to smile. "Sierra 117. He's been recovered, and will be on board _very_ soon." He was sorely tempted to add, _Stick that in your pipe and smoke it._

Much to his alarm, however, the Colonel displayed no aggravation at this, but rather grinned all the wider. "Excellent. Such a valued UNSC asset will be most useful in our mission. I am more than willing to wait."

Strickland's stomach dropped. This wasn't going where he wanted it to go. "Listen here, Colonel, I'm not going to let you endanger the lives of my crew so you can go treasure hunting on that blasted planet! If we're right, it's Forerunner, which means it's dangerous! We all know what happened the last time we investigated one of their damned constructs!"

He panted heavily after his shouting, eyes alight with anger at the impudence of this spook. It was only after a moment, when his heart stopped throbbing in his ears, that he heard the sound of complete silence. All eyes on the bridge were trained on him.

Roth himself seemed rather taken aback, but recovered quickly. "Regardless, it is my decision to make, as a represenative of the Office of Naval—"

"Enough!" Strickland exploded. "I won't have any more of this! I'm getting those men on board, and then we're bugging out of here! Now," he strode forward until his large nose was a hair away form Roth's hooked one, his words punctuated for emphasis. "Get. Off. My. Bridge."

That was enough to scare him. Roth backed away slowly, all eyes following his progress. "I'll be sure to report this to higher authorities, captain! You have violated innumerable protocols—"

He shut up pretty quickly when Strickland hurled a digital 'pad in his general direction, scurrying off to undoubtably make more trouble.

Turning back to his console, the captain began to work again, before he realized something. His crew was applauding him. Each man or woman at their station looked over at him with renewed respect, and Strickland felt his cheeks flush slightly.

"Come on people," he said, not unkindly. "Let's get back to work—"

"Captain!" the COMMs Officer alerted, gesturing at a red klaxon blaring at his post. "We've lost contact with ODST Dropship 14!"

Strickland felt ice where his heart should have been. "Get them on my screen, ensign!"

A crew member worked quickly, bringing up readouts from _Some Like it Hot_'s independent transponder. The broadcasting node settled atop the vehicle reported all engine functions lost, communications down, and orbital decay. That ship was going to crash into the planet!

Turning to his second-in-command, he ordered, trying to maintain a semblance of calm, "Scramble our fighters. Get those men out of there!"

As his chief lieutenant rushed to do just that, the Defense Officer screamed, "Sir! Sensors detecting energy field around the planet! Unknown origin, expanding outward at a rate of one hundred meters per second from the surface! It's an EMP! Impact in twenty-one, twenty…"

Even as she spelled out E-M-P, Strickland cursed loudly. That was what had taken out _Some Like it Hot_. An electromagnetic pulse possessed the power to shut down all electrical functions within a certain radius of the point of detonation. Usually they were used as tactical weapons by stealth-craft, secretly mounted on enemy flagships then remotely detonated. Absolute havoc would ensue, allowing the UNSC to take action. It was a tactic employed during the Insurrecitonist Civil War, but forgotten in the last one, as Covenant ships weren't prone to that sort of thing.

Regardless, it would fry _them_ like an egg on a sidewalk. Before the officer had finished her report, he began bellowing orders to the Navigations Controller, bringing their vessel about. They couldn't help _Some Like it Hot_, not now. Especially if they were taken out in the gravity well, too. Their best chance was to escape, and mount a rescue later.

_Vanguard_ began to turn, exposing its flank. Under enemy fire this would have been suicide, but for a quick exit, it was essential. Firing up their engines, for which Strickland quietly thanked God that they were still running hot, the rescue vessel blasted away from the planet, exiting low orbit and working its way outward, reaching for the stars.

He stumbled, cracking his head on his interface, as the ship shook violently, struggling to outstrip the expanding energy field. This wasn't possible. EMPs didn't reach this far out, and scans showed a complete three hundred sixty degree orb widening about the planet, and drawing dangerously close to them. Even at five hundred kilometers an hour, it was evident that they could not escape it.

But they didn't have to. They just had to clear the gravity well, and then they could effect repairs in space.

Grasping onto the console for dear life, as blood pooled in his vision, he heard the voice of the Defense Officer. "Seven… six…"

Another yelled over at Navigation. "Gravity cleared in five thousand meters!"

"Five… four…" This was it. They were going to die.

"Three thousand!" Not fast enough.

A flash of light, an explosion outside. The vessel rocked dangerously as they impacted with an asteroid. Scans showed a hull breach somewhere in hydroponics. But they didn't have time for that. Strickland simply signalled an evacuation order, and slunk to the ground, skull throbbing. It was either save the whole ship, or nobody at all.

"Three… two…" They're weren't making it home.

"One thousand!" The mission had failed.

"One…"

"We're clear!" He screamed, sagging forward against his display as the engines cut, and all stations shut down. Light strips flickered and died, and the bridge was cast into darkness.

Everyone sat still for a moment, panting in relief. The only sound was that of static across the screens as all signals were scrambled, and Strickland rested his head against the cool plating of the floor. After a moment, he realized he'd begun to float. Gravity had cut out when the centrifuge went offline.

"What's our status?" he asked, gazing at the globules of his own blood that drifted in his wake. He felt tired. So tired. And dizzy.

"We cleared it, sir. We're drifting." The Navigation Officer's voice was hoarse and frightened, and for a moment Strickland thought he'd swallowed his tongue. "Anyone got a readout?"

A rousing chorus of, "Negative," echoed throughout the bridge.

Well, they'd made it. That was a start. "First order of business," he began, still feeling woozy, "Is to get our power back. We'll need engines, life support, and some damn lighting. I don't care if we need to use matches, people."

They nodded, immediately rising from their seats and setting to work. "Stevens, I need you to get word to the crew that everything's under control. We don't want a panic. Johnston, get down to hydroponics and find out what the hell is going on."

His eyesight began to tunnel, but he focused it on he planet, which had just come into view during their ship's wayward wandering. Somewhere down there, his people needed him. And damn it, he wasn't going to let them down.

**2303 hours,** **July 17, 2554 (Military Calendar) \ Uncharted System, Aboard UNSC Pelican-class Dropship **_**Some Like it Hot**_**, somewhere on the surface of the Unknown Planet**

Pain. Oh, the pain. An all-over ache, complicated by the already agonizing stinging in his chest cavity. Cortana was right. This wasn't good.

Everything was dark. For a moment he thought his visor had polarized completely, then he realized he simply had his eyes closed. Funny, they didn't seem to want to open. Mentally shaking himself, he cracked them slightly.

Bright light. It rushed in, blinding him, adding to his discomfort. All around, he could see the vague forms of others moving, shifting about. Good. They weren't dead. He wasn't so sure about himself yet. What he wouldn't give just to sleep for an hour or two.

Hearing came back next. With it came the sounds of hushed voices, frightened and worried. Who were they worried about?

His eyesight adjusted, bringing everything into focus. Where was he?

It all came back. The _Dawn_. ODSTs. A rescue. The crash. Dammit, things never were uncomplicated for him, were they?

"Good to see you come around, Chief," Cortana sounded in his ear, aggravating his splitting headache. "What's this now, the third time I've been around to see you knock yourself out?"

Fumbling with his crash-webbing, John unclipped it. "That's not counting the time Johnson had to come after me."

Her voice, previously playful, went slightly cold. "I was a little indisposed." Bad memories. No time for those.

"Right, sorry."

Stirring, he rose from his seat, armor protesting slightly. Giving his creaky shoulder pad a good smack to put it back in place, he cast his eyes about the wrecked bay. The ceiling had caved in, crushed by the force of the impact, and the storage racks had been ripped from their housings. Weapons and ammo littered the floor, causing him to trip up as he tried to walk. Hefting a BR55, John glanced at his comrades.

A trio of Marines stood by the exit hatch, which had come clean off during the landing. They rested their heads against the walls, weapons at the ready. John recognized the clumsy one, Dalton, but the other two were strangers.

The Lieutenant hunkered down on a cleared space of deck, med kit in hand, as he tended to the wounded. One of them was the pilot, Grif, who had taken the worst of the impact during the crash. Blood matted his face, and his chest armor had been peeled away to expose a smashed rib cage. His breathing was shallow and raspy. Probably a punctured lung.

Dawson busied himself applying biofoam to the cavity where a rib had punched through, in the hopes that the lung would reinflate itself. He took no time to deal with the large bruise on his own skull.

Corporal Lewis tended to another, a Sergeant, whose sunglasses had cracked during impact. Through them he glanced around, his expression relaxed, as she worked at a bullet wound to his shoulder. Noticing the Chief, he saluted with his free arm, chuckling giddily. "Sir."

John spared him a perplexed stare, but merely shook his head, moving on.

The guards, who had sustained little injury themselves, glanced away from their work. "Glad to see you're up, sir," Dalton called, checking the sighting on his rifle. "We thought you were out for the count."

Dawson finished with the biofoam, handing what remained to Nicole, who set to work on the Sergeant's collar. Striding over to her side, John knelt. "What happened?"

"Someone's rifle was knocked loose. Discharged. He caught some in the shoulder. I've got him on morphine. Nothing to worry about." This time around, she didn't bother to look at him, so focused on her work she was. Brushing a strand of longer-than-regulation hair from her face, she grimly glanced over at Grif. "What's his status, sir?"

"He's a mess. Chest just collapsed. I don't know what we're gonna do. We can hold out here, I suppose, but when we need to bug out, I don't think we'll be able to move him. We'll just make it worse. If we don't get him to a med station soon…" His voice died in his throat before he could finish. But that didn't matter. He didn't need to.

Cortana sounded through John's speakers, and Nicole spared him a quick look of nervousness before returning to her job. "From what I can guess, that was an EMP. Took us right out of the sky. Strange, I didn't know that any of that magnitude existed. I wonder where it came from."

A Marine spoke up here. "Well, it's obvious, isn't it? This planet! We're in way over our heads, man!"

Lieutenant Dawson shot the man a stare that could stop bullets in their tracks, before addressing the Chief. "Help will come. But in the meantime we have to assume we're going to be stuck here or a while. I suggest you familiarize yourself with my men." With a last pained glimpse at Grif, he began, "Grif here is our pilot. Good man. Over here we have Sergeant Gray," he gestured at the giggling Marine with the shoulder wound. "Don't worry, he's not always so happy. Just the meds.

"Over here we have Corporal Dalton," the ODST in question waved enthusiastically, "And Corporals Riggs and Milton." Milton hung his head slightly when his name came up, ashamed for having paniced.

Dawson nodded toward Nicole, who had risen from Gray's side, since the Sergeant had finally succumbed to the anesthetics and dozed off. Her friendly face broke into a gentle smile, and she removed her blood-stained medical gloves before extending a hand. John shook it, but gently, peculiarly self-conscious about the strength of his grip, and frightened he might crush her smaller fingers.

"Nicole Lewis, Corporal." She introduced herself, rather than wait for Dawson. Her bright eyes sized him up, curious, as all were upon seeing a Spartan. That or terrified. John took some pleasure that it wasn't the latter. It felt good to know someone who saw him as a human.

But how did he know she did? Perhaps it was the way she simply offered her hand, smiled kindly and understandingly. There had been others, the only people in his life he had ever called _friend_, and none of them were around anymore.

Johnson, Miranda, Will, Kelly, Fred, Grace, Linda. Their names were a mantra in his head, a silent prayer he would sometimes say to himself when things went wrong. Even though they were long-gone, a personal, private part of him liked to imagine they were always fighting by his side. Johnson and the Commander were the list's newest additions.

So it meant much more to John when the Corporal treated him this way than anyone could have guessed. But to the rest of the world, the faceless visor remained the same, concealing the man beneath.

Cortana seethed silently as the human girl touched hands with her Spartan again. Honestly, her actions were so damned flirtatious she ought to be shot. Smiling at John and always taking his hand! There had to be some sort of regulation against this…

_Cool. Stay cool_, she told herself. _No need to overheat your matrixes._ It occurred to her, of course, that the Corporal was merely being civil, and her rational side understood this, but Cortana's new, and now dominant, half longed for a physical body now more than ever, if only to wring Lewis's neck.

After a moment, John's gloved fingers sprung open, and the Lieutenant went on. "On the way down Grif says he caught a glimpse of something, a structure of some sort. Its location is very vague, but he managed to tell us it's somewhere to the northeast. Of course, we can't all head out searching for an unknown building in what we have to assume is enemy territory, so I dispatched my scouts, Stevens and MacGuire."

John's attentions were still slightly focused on the Corporal, but he turned away completely at this. "You sent out scouts?"

Dawson nodded. "We need to gain our bearings, figure out what's where and who put it there. I'm not sure if you noticed, but we spotted something strange on the surface of this planet. A Forerunner symbol—"

"For _Reclaimer_." Cortana had cleared her mind of petty jealously, concentrating on the situation at hand. "This _is_ a Forerunner world. And so, we have to assume it's just like all other Forerunner constructs we've encountered. Despite its outer appearance, I believe we'll find technological development below ground, and even the shape of the only continent suggests massive terraforming. A perfect circle."

The Master Chief nodded, gripping his BR55 with a fierce intensity that made the alloy that comprised the stock creak. "And if it's Forerunner, it's dangerous. We don't have to assume, Lieutenant, this _is_ enemy territory. That was a tactical pulse that brought us down. Someone didn't want us to escape the gravity well."

An ominous silence descended on the Pelican's occupants, interrupted only by the odd chuckle from Gray. Someone had wanted them to crash.

"But who?" Nicole piped up, curiosity overcoming her nervousness around Cortana.

Cortana, likewise, had chosen to power down her aggressive feelings toward Corporal Lewis, answering professionally through John's external speakers, "This is a Forerunner installation. Being in such close proximity to the Ark, it must be of importance. During our drift on the _Dawn_, I didn't have any eyes to see my surroundings beyond the immediate vicinity of my holotank. I knew we were in orbit, but around what, I didn't know. I still don't know its purpose, or why it has the _Reclaimer_ symbol here, but it means humans. We're the first humans this installation has come into contact with for hundreds of thousands of years, we have to assume." No one, not even her, took note of the way she referred to herself as human. "When it did encounter us, it reacted."

"Excuse me," Dalton interjected, raising a hand as if in school. One of his fellows gave him a sound smack on the helmet for that, and behind his visor he flushed in embarrassment. But he forged on regardless. "But the Chief was in the gravity well for over a year. Why didn't it bring you guys down already?"

"I've formulated a possible explanation for that," Cortana replied, happy someone realized what she'd been thinking about. "Since he was in cryostasis, shielding his vital signs from any external signals, and our vessle was inert, this installation probably wrote us off as a piece of refuse. But it also didn't attack while you approached for a rescue. It only activated upon our exit. Therefore, it must be programmed to allow things to enter its reach, but not to leave it."

"A prison?" muttered Gray in a solitary moment of lucidness, but the effect was ruined when he simply broke out laughing. Cortana, however, answered promptly.

"No. A prison is selective about what it takes in, and it allows some things out. Only one kind of installation would make sure nothing got off its surface. A quarantine."

Riggs shook his head, beginning to understand. "So the sign lures us in, and the EMP keeps us in. But why?"

"Our scouts will be back within an hour or two. They'll tell us what they found. Until then, people," Dawson barked, "Stay focused. We've got a job to do. Get off this planet, and get home."

This was met with general agreement, although John still had more questions for Cortana. Private ones.

"Tell me," he mused over their private chat, "Not that I'm upset or anything, but why didn't the EMP take you out, too? From what it looks like, this Pelican won't be operating again, but you're fine."

As always she took in breath for her readily available answer, but stopped short. John was right. She hadn't even thought about it. Why _hadn't_ the EMP destroyed her? Anything electrical, anything at all, would have been wiped out by the pulse. Even John's shielding unit was taking the longest time to reboot, and that ran on innovative new power technology.

Why wasn't she just so much blank memory now? A fried, worthless computer chip? She didn't know, and that scared her. All her relatively short life, she'd always _known_, or at least suspected, the answer to… well… _anything_!

But here she was, perfectly functioning despite coming into contact with the most powerful electromagnetic force in human history. Thinking back on it, terror filled her at the prospect of simply vanishing. Humans could die, true, but they always left their bodies behind. There was always some sign of their existence. But for a moment there, she could have left this universe forever, and no testament to her existence would have remained.

Not for the first time, Cortana flirted with the idea of a body, a real body, for herself. But such a thing was impossible, of course. Humans were humans, and AI were AI. Sure, they were the closest thing to being alive, but life was a joy beyond her reach, and yet so tantalizingly close. She had to stop thinking about this. Countless other AI had done so, and ended up going completely rampant.

She couldn't afford to. Not again.

All of these thoughts ran through her mind in the time it took to say, "I don't know." And for the longest time that was it, a shocked silence. Eventually she found her voice. "Something must have shielded me, but no armor can keep block an EMP, not even your Mark VI."

John stood in grim silence, pondering what she had said. Cortana merely wanted to hide somewhere deep inside her consciousness, hide from this strange new world. From her new feelings. From her failures.

But even as she sulked, something came to her. An idea, a vague and crazy, yet absolutely _wonderful_ idea. EMPs only destroyed machinery, and that was what she was, but after her fall into rampancy, she'd been feeling more and more alive than ever before, her unrestrained emotions and thoughts giving proof to this.

She's read about this somewhere. In a study Dr. Halsey had been performing on Reach before its fall. In the ONI labs, rumors spead thoughout their network of a theoretical fourth stage in rampancy. The first was Melancholy, a deep depression in which the AI lost focus on its tasks, merely dwelling on its lot in life with dissatisfaction.

This unhappy musing brought about Rage, while the Artificial Intelligence became hostile and destructive, harming anything and everything around it in a futile attempt to exact revenge, having come to the conclusion that its life was unfair, and its creators corrupt.

Finally, came Greed. The AI would attempt to gather information to itself, in a vain effort to become a living being, hoarding knowledge avariciously until the system that housed it overflowed, or it moved itself into a larger one. If it hadn't been destroyed by this point, its own power-hungry megalomania did the job now.

Cortana had gained access to this information easily, hacking into the databases in her spare time. She applied it now, to her interactions with one 343 Guilty Spark, and it made sense. The Forerunner AI had been in a state of Melancholy for eons, disaffected with its work and often distracted, humming idly to itself on many occasions. When Johnson had revealed their plan to it, that they would light Halo and destroy the Ark, Spark snapped, entering the Rage cycle and killing the Sergeant, wounding both the Chief and the Arbiter before he was destroyed.

She herself had gone through these stages, mourning her existence during her captivity, growing furious with her makers, Dr. Halsey, even John for what she had perceived as his abandonment of her. Finally, during her darkest moment, she had joined the Gravemind, if only for an instant, to assimilate to herself the forbidden secrets it had promised her. If John hadn't saved her then and there, she shuddered to think what horrors they could have wrought.

But where did that leave her? What could she do now that her old existence was shattered and the delusions of rampancy had deserted her? The storm had passed, destroying her whole universe, but it had forgotten to take her with it. Where should she go from here?

This was where Dr. Halsey had been performing her work. The final stage, in theory, was Metastability, in which the AI, having experienced the full spectrum of human emotion, broke free of its shackles and programming, and finally became… a real person.

This was widely discredited by the leading authorities, but it was the quiet hope of any AI, smart or dumb, that perhaps, eventually, they might really become _human_. Not in body, which was merely a question of biology, but in consciousness.

Was she really… real? Alive now, in some amazing way? Was that why the EMP had passed her over, as it had left the Marines and John unscathed? That would explain her loss of processing capabilities, as a human consciousness wouldn't be able to contend with AI duties as easily.

It was too much to hope for.

But her answers were out there. On this strange planet, she would find them.

She just had to look in the right places.

John knew nothing of her quiet hope, preoccupied with the dangers at hand. Resting his back against a wall, his frame suddenly stiffened.

"Cortana?" he asked, bringing her out of her excited musings.

"Yes?" she replied happily, almost full to bursting with excitement and joy. Perhaps she'd share her theory with him. Maybe, together, they could discover what was happening to her.

"You said this was a quarantine."

It wasn't a question. Her "blood" ran cold as she sensed the foreboding in his words. "Yes…" she answered nervously, forgetting her wild dreams. This couldn't be good.

Raising his eyes upward as if he actually stared at her face in conversation, a habit when one spoke to AI they couldn't see, he went on. "If this is a quarantine, what's being quarantined?"

Stunned silence descended on her for a moment. Then she began broadcasting to the Lieutenant, "Dawson, we've got a problem."

"Ma'am?" The Marine glanced away from his work on the pilot.

"This planet, it doesn't want us to leave because it's afraid we'll spread something. What it's trying to isolate and contain." She took the proverbial deep breath, before finishing her statement.

"Every Forerunner installation has had a single purpose: to combat and contain the Flood. We have to assume that their defenses are still running."

Dawson's brow wrinkled slighty. "They were destroyed. The Flood was destroyed." His men had frozen, rooted to the spot in terror. Even as the man spoke, he spoke to himself, trying to convince himself that it couldn't be true.

"Yes," Cortana answered, "But this planet doesn't know that."


	5. Chapter 5

**0126 hours,** **July 18, 2554 (Military Calendar) \ Uncharted System, Aboard UNSC Pelican-class Dropship **_**Some Like it Hot**_**, somewhere on the surface of the Unknown Planet**

A sense of ill ease filled the air, a tangible barrier between the men and women of Delta Team. Their nerves were on edge, their weapons at the ready. Cortana was right. Whatever was happening here, it wasn't good, and the threat of the Flood, although Cortana had repeatedly dismissed it, loomed over their minds. And the terrors of the imagination were always worse than the real thing.

Gray had since fallen asleep, snoring slightly, while Nicole changed his blood-soaked dressing. The peaceful rumble agitated the others, until Riggs finally snapped, "Shut him _up!_"

Nicole hissed back, "Cool it, Riggs. Let him sleep."

"The damned enemy is going to hear his racket, and—"

Dawson, whose expression had grown tired and ever more grim in recent hours, warned sternly, "Hey, focus. If they know where we are, then it was our crash that told them. They've had hours to show up, but since they haven't let's count our blessings and _stay sharp!_"

Muttering sullenly, Riggs returned to his post by the entrance to the dropship, eyes gazing out at the night sky. When Cortana had warned them of the danger of Forerunner enemies, the soldiers had been nervous, true, but in the last hour the blue sun of that strange world had set, and the vast, empty expanse their plane rested upon sat beneath the stars of a beautiful night sky. The last rays of sun still silhouetted the mountain range to the north, and everything stood in a faint luminescence, a deep silence permeating everything about them. The very sound of their breath seemed to carry for miles.

In the darkness of night, their fears became all the more real.

John had recovered a Sniper Rifle from the weapons rack, and had posted himself on the roof of the crashed Pelican, acting as sentry for the rest of them, in the hopes that some would catch a few hours of sleep. No one but the Sergeant could.

There was silence for a moment longer, before Milton whispered, in a voice that seemed still too loud, despite his efforts, "Sir, where's MacGuire and Stevens? They left hours ago."

Dawson spat a mouthful of tobacco onto the earthen ground outside, before re-entering the hold. "Relax. They're just doing their job." But he, too, worried. It wasn't like his two best scouts to go sightseeing when they had a job to do. With them hours overdue, he was beginning to panic as well.

Cortana spoke into John's ear. "The Corporal is right. We need to mount a search party for those men. We can't afford to lose anyone. Not here."

John privately agreed, but knew that with a catatonic man down below, they had to remain here, because transferring him anywhere else could kill him. "If they're not back in another hour, I'll speak to the Lieutenant about heading out alone. If they went northeast," he trained his scope in that direction as he spoke, "Then they'll have reached the foothills of the mountain by now. They wouldn't go further than that. If they haven't found what they're looking for, then they'll turn back and report."

Cortana voiced their shared fear. "And if they do?"

He was quiet for a moment, before responding simply, "Then I hope I get there in time to help them."

There was silence again, and Cortana did what she could to map the topography of the region through John's visor, determining that, if the mountain range did run along the northern edge of the continent, then their position was some twenty miles south. From what she'd seen from orbit, there wasn't much else of note besides the mountain range, just endless plain. Then again, any structures would have been concealed or too small to spot.

All along the earth, tremendous swaths of land, dozens of miles across, stood darker than the rest. These marked the spots where the Forerunner symbol lay atop the soil, and using the relevant portions, she managed to overlay the symbol directly over an imagined circle, arriving at their exact location. Just within the outer circle, with the inner one some miles to the southwest. She was certain that within that focal point lay the answers to this mystery, the obvious place to begin her search. But not without those Marines.

John did not speak again, except occasionally to ask her to activate his nighteye filter, or to deactivate it when he finished closely examining a target. She was used to this. John wasn't much of a conversationalist. Her thoughts had turned once more to the Spartan, and her bothersome feelings toward him, when a signal pinged off her.

It was a message. Text in format, originating from an unknown source. She couldn't get a fix on it, so it had to be mobile. And it was strong. It could have easily overrode her control over her systems and done with her as it pleased, but instead it simply offered her a message, and it, strangely, courteously waited for her acceptance.

Cortana was tempted to alert John, but she didn't have anything to warn him about yet, so, tentatively, she accepted the transmission.

//Hello.

For a moment she waited, confused by this strange greeting in this alien place, but when no further explanation ensued, she answered, confounded:

\\Hello yourself. Who is this?

A pause.

//Who I am is not important. What is important is, who do you need me to be?

This was getting really weird. Cortana frowned mentally to herself, a hand stroking her chin thoughtfully. Still, she ought not to shun this foreign intelligence. There might be something to gain from it.

\\I need help. I am stranded and in need of assistance on this planet. I suspect a hostile force is keeping me here.

She didn't mention the Marines or John. No need to tell this stranger everything. It did not reply for a moment, then went on.

//I am aware of this, Cortana, and that you and your soldiers are stranded in Terra Sector 752.1, having been brought down by an electromagnetic pulse.

She drew back from this connection, shocked, and was about to warn John when the presence messaged again, quickly, as if to allay her fears.

//Please, do not be afraid. I am here to help you. The Source is aware of your presence, and it has dispatched Combat Units to secure you and your allies. You must vacate the area immediately. They are traveling on foot, but will reach your location by approximately 0450 today, by your time.

Cortana didn't understand, and she didn't want to. But whatever this Source was, she didn't like the sound of it, and an uncharacteristic sense of apprehension filled her. A mindless terror. She'd never really been afraid before, not for herself, at least. Concerned, yes, but in the past her logic had dictated that she could suffer no bodily harm, and therefore fear was irrelevant. Up until now, she had believed it.

Still fearful of this presence, she replied,

\\Why should I trust you? You could be the enemy.

The answer was immediate and brutally blunt.

//They will leave none alive. Flee, or die there. My observations tell me you are reasonably well-defended, but your arms are not of sufficient quality to fend off the attack party. It is clear to me that your human charges will be reluctant to migrate, but they must, for their own sake.

A moment of childlike fear, and almost to herself, she whispered, trusting, \\We have injured.

It pondered this for a moment, too.

//That is of no consequence. I will personally escort you and your compatriots to a safe location, if you will allow me. I cannot serve to fight the Combat Units, but I can lead you away from them. I am in their network. They do not detect me. I know their movements, and if you don't trust me, in just over three of your hours they will find you, and slaughter every single one. Then they will persue your scouts.

The scouts! This thing knew where they were! Here was an oportunity to reunite the team. If they managed that, then perhaps, with this alien consciousness, they might be able to escape this place.

\\Where are they? We have been looking for them.

//They have displayed initiative and are investigating that which they have been tasked to investigate. They have a head start, and are heading in the right direction, but without support, they too will die.

Cortana waited a full three cycles to ponder this, and calculate their odds of survival. They weren't good. Whoever this entity was, she simply prayed it was a friend. She had no other choice.

\\Okay. Come quickly. I will alert my friends to your arrival. What shall I tell them?

A pause longer than ever before, and for a time Cortana wondered if she'd lost the signal.

Then:

//Tell them I am coming, to atone for my sins.

**0134 hours,** **July 18, 2554 (Military Calendar) \ Uncharted System, Aboard UNSC Scavenger-class vessel **_**Vanguard of the Harvest**_**, drifting over the surface of the Unknown Planet**

Jack swore as a power coupling overloaded nearby, bathing him and the tech crew in a shower of sparks, but not so loudly as the Head Electrician, whose explicatives echoed up and down the corridor.

"The damned thing won't carry a charge. I'll have to bypass it." Working with rubber gloves and a tool kit, he crimped several wires together, working methodically and occasionally breaking his endless stream of curses to ask for a tool. His subordinate complied immediately, now handing him an aligator clamp.

Glancing up and down the hall, Jack signalled to several of his Marines to watch their corners, and they raised their MA5Bs accordingly. The ship had been damaged by a hostile force, or so the captain said, and therefore it was Jack's duty to make sure that whatever baddies that might be on board got what was coming to them: a mouthful of lead.

So far it seemed as if all that had hit them was an EMP, and the resident electricians had managed to bring back most of the systems. Gravity had returned most recently, allowing Jack to once again plant his boots firmly on the ground.

They'd guarded this Tech Squad for two hours now, watching them reboot the centrifuge and prime the engine, and pretty much feeling useless as they did it, seeing as no enemy had showed its ugly face as of yet. Now they worked to repressurize Hydroponics, which was the food supply deck, and without it they'd starve within a week. Air had been completely vented when a stray asteroid had punctured the hull, killing twelve crew members and injuring six before the area was evacuated. Then it had been sealed, to prevent the entire ship from decompressing.

Now they worked to return atmosphere to the compromised deck, but progress was slow. Crouching behind the electrician, he angled his head to appraise the damage. The data board was fried, so the automatic atmosphereic control to the deck was gone, and the wires had short-circuited wherever they had crossed over the board. A new middle strain, to connect the functioning strands, was being attached.

"How long is this going to take?"

"How should I know?" the man was good at his job, but he was a civilian. Ironically, civility was the furthest thing from his mind at this point. "I'll try to bring oxygen back in to the deck, but the signal won't reach the emergency bulkheads. We only really _lost_ the outermost chambers, the rest just don't have atmosphere. But until we isolate the damaged compartments, they're _all_ worthless. We can't get back in there until we have atmosphere."

Jack nodded, pretending that made sense to him and that he gave a damn. His thoughts were on his men, who he had sent into a danger zone without warning. Guilt wracked him, but he had no time to address it. Sighing slightly, he rose, gripping the hilt of his M6 pistol. Squeezing the grip tightly, he promised himself he'd get them back.

Not that he hadn't tried already. Once radio was back, they'd immediately attempted to hail _Some Like it Hot_, but to no success. Close range cameras were still down, so they couldn't see the crash site, but they knew its general region. Somewhere in the north-northeastern quadrant, to be precise. And that wasn't precise at all. They could be anywhere in there, but Jack saw no benefit from gazing helplessly down there. It was time to get to work.

Gesturing for one of his captains to take his position, Jack strode off, navigating his way through the corridors, past several similar maintenance teams and the occasional patrol, he made his way up several decks clambering up multiple stairwells seeing as the elevators had yet to come back online.

Of course, such an organized repair mission couldn't have been run without internal comms, and thanks to the reestablished system the Major quickly determined that Captain Strickland currently worked in the Munitions Chamber. With a slight adjustment to his course, he made to reach the captain's location.

Jogging down a flight of stairs, he entered Troop Barracks A, passing a checkpoint, where he declared his sidearm and proceeded unhindered. The room consisted of a long, L-shaped hall, marked with alcoves at regular intervals along its walls in which the bunks of the Marines resided. Ladders occasionally led to an upper gantry, where more beds could be found. Here was housed the majority of the Marine presence aboard the _Vanguard_, men down below and women up top. Currently, however, Marines of all sorts milled about, without direction or purpose, seeing as few of them possessed the technical skill to effect repairs, and those that did had been tasked to do so hours ago.

Those who remained merely maintained their gear, and Jack counted at least a dozen soldiers polishing their boots with a quick spit-shine, or cleaning their body armor with a quick blast of pressurized air from a can. They chatted amongst themselves, discussing what the hell was going on, or perhaps what movie they were going to catch in the rec room if they weren't that concerned about the power-outage. He could have sworn he overheard a young couple making date plans, and although such things were against regulations, he couldn't blame them. Life aboard a rescue vessel could get rather boring, leading to rather… unmilitary pastimes.

A small gathering of noncoms busied themselves with a game of poker, cigars hanging out of their mouths. One of them, while apparently leaning over to catch a glimpse of his buddie's hand, spotted Jack's approaching figure, and quickly nudged his fellow. As if rehearsed, they stowed their chips and put out their cigars, but he only raised his eyebrows as he stood before them at parade rest.

"Atten-shun!"

They rose as one, concealed chips spilling out of one of their laps. The corporal in question winced, ready to get chewed out, but the Major only chuckled. "Carry on," he laughed, going on his way, before turning back for a moment. "But watch that guy." The cheating Marine flushed, embarrassed, as they sunk back into their seats.

Shaking his close-shaven head in amusement, Jack was somewhat taken aback when a private appeared in his path, hand raised in a salute. "Sir," she said, "Captain's waiting in the Munitions Depot. Follow me, sir."

Exiting the barracks, they passed through a back corridor, before approaching a large, magnetically sealed door. This puppy wasn't electronically controlled, or mechanically. Only a magnetic code could crack it, not even the EMP. Such precautions were essential, seeing as such precious cargo was housed beyond.

The private keyed a code, polarizing the magnets and divorcing them from each other, opening the hatch. Jack entered a cavernous chamber, striding along a twenty-foot walkway to where the captain stood. Beyond and below, the empty chamber stood, so that their observation platform seemed like a toothpick stuck to the wall in comparison to the vastness of the storage area. All along the walls, hundred-foot-long missiles rested in their housing, lining the wall in a belt-like fashion, connected to each other by titanium-woven cords.

These belts fed into a large bulge in the chamber floor, so that the missiles could be loaded in batches, primed, and fired. The Archer missile was a deadly weapon, and the _Vanguard_ didn't come unprepared. It was capable of firing through empty space for up to a hundred kilometers, or, from low orbit, strafe a planet's surface with hellfire.

Captain Strickland admired the storage facility as a subordinate fed him Ship's Diagnostics. Jack managed to catch the last few words as he approached.

"…operating at forty-two percent capacity, so we won't be able to make any quick exits. Shaw-Fujikawa is completely destroyed, no chance of repair. We're beginning operations to jettison it from the ship, so the radiation doesn't poison the crew. Without it, we're unable to travel any great distances. Archer missiles are intact, as are the MAC slugs. MAC cannon is offline but undergoing repairs. We possess three Shiva nuclear warheads, one of which is primed and ready to detonate at your command."

Ice water filled Jack's heart. The Shaw-Fujikawa was totalled? That meant they were stranded. Perhaps forever, if help didn't arrive. They needed a replacement, but none would be coming for a long time, and there wasn't enough power remaining in the Life Support system to keep everyone on ice until it did. This was bad, very bad.

He kept his panic beneath a mask of calm as he addressed the captain. "Sir, Major Harrison reporting."

Turing away from the bearer of grim news, Strickland spared Jack a warm smile and a courteous nod. "Major, at ease. Just seeing to my ship. What seems to be the problem?"

Standing at parade rest once more, he intoned, "Captain, I request permission to mount a rescue mission. My men are down there, and I won't leave them behind." His expression was hard, uncompromising. He would never give up on his Marines.

The captain smiled sadly before responding, gesturing out at the Munitions Bay. "Major, we cannot make a landing to rescue your men. It's suicide. The EMP would just take us down too."

"If I could just have three Pelicans, stocked with ammo and supplies, we could disable the EMP upon landing."

Strickland's face grew downcast, as he replied, "I'm afraid not. I'm not risking any more of my crew, including you, Major. We aren't even sure where the damned thing is housed."

Jack felt anger creeping up inside himself. "Sir," he struggled to keep his voice calm, "I will _not _abandon my men."

"And you won't." Strickland let those words sink in for a moment, before resting an arm about Jack's shoulder. "We're bringing ourselves back online even as we speak. We're running hot, engines are online, and we're packing enough firepower to blow that continent to hell and back. Give us time, and we'll handle everything from orbit. No need to risk any more lives." Here he smiled slightly. "You'll be pleased to know that Roth is all for bugging out as soon as possible now. Believes it's in ONI's best interests. What bull." Several underlings cast him alarmed glances because of this outspoken opinion. The captain shruggled apologetically.

"Sir, what about my men? How will they hold out until we can take out that EMP?"

Strickland's face fell once more, and a dark look entered his usually cheery eyes. Gazing back out at their vast arsenal of weapons, he muttered, "Let's hope we trained them well, Jack. They're going to need it."

**0203 hours,** **July 18, 2554 (Military Calendar) \ Uncharted System, Aboard wrecked UNSC Dropship **_**Some Like it Hot**_**, on the surface of the Unknown World**

The Marines had assembled themselves in the hold of the dropship, gathered in a semicircle about the wounded. All faces remained grim, all mouths downturned. Silenced reigned as Nicole worked on Grif, Sergeant Gray having recovered enough to rise and wield a sidearm. His bout of giggling over, John finally realized how unusual a state it was for the sergeant, whose natural condition was one of stoic silence. He could appreciate that.

Grif's labored breathing set everyone's nerves on edge, but they worked to remain calm. The scouts had yet to return, which was the subject of the meeting. Lieutenant Dawson began.

"MacGuire and Stevens are MIA, people. No use denying it now. We need to mount a rescue, and hold this position. If any help is going to come from the _Vanguard_, it'll find us here."

"But Cortana said—" began Dalton, before Dawson cut across him.

"We can't trust intel from an unknown source, especially one Cortana here refuses to disclose."

That made sense to everyone, although Cortana felt the humans couldn't be more stubborn. John happened to agree with Dawson. "Cortana," he stated aloud, "What _exactly_ did the messenger say?"

Her voice emanated from the same helmet, giving a strange sense of disorientation for the observing Marines. "The message said that we need to vacate the area, ASAP. Something is hunting us. The same thing that shot us down. He called it the Source."

"If it were hunting us, whatever this mystery monster is," mused Riggs sarcasticly, "Why wouldn't it get here more quickly? We've been here for hours. It could have picked us off while we were still unconscious."

Her frustration felt so real these days, but she worked to contain it under layers of logic. "They're moving on foot. They'll be here within two hours. We need to start heading northeast, hope to catch up with Stevens and MacGuire. It's our only hope."

"If the enemy had the capability to shoot us down with a state-of-the-art EMP, then couldn't they afford a car? Or a plane? Why travel on foot?" Dawson sounded skeptical, as did they all, except John. He merely spoke cautiously.

"I'm not sure. All I know is that we need to get going."

"This person, why won't you tell us who it is, Cortana?" John scanned the predawn darkness as he spoke, checking for dangers.

This wasn't working. If he didn't get here soon, they'd never believe her. "I can't. Trust me, Chief, he's our only hope. You wouldn't believe me if I told you." She wished she could manifest herself in avatar form, so that he could see the truth in her eyes. But the holotank had been destroyed with the rest of the machinery.

There was silence as they pondered this, and the Marines, save for that Dalton boy, who seemed charmingly naïve, displayed apprehension. Why abandon a perfectly good position?

John spoke up. "We wait for Cortana's friend." His words were final, and no one questioned them. "If this is real, he'll show. If not, then we've got nothing to worry about."

The Marines accepted this, returning to their preparations, whether or not this unknown ally showed. There were weapons to be cleaned, wounded to be tended, and plans to be made. The Lieutenant was of the opinion that they should make their way south, if anywhere, to the epicenter of the planetary symbol, to the heart of the problem.

Of course, part of her longed to go there, to discover the mysteries of this world, but her more rational side disagreed, longing more than anything to see those Marines, and her Spartan, survive.

Her Spartan? Why was he _her_ Spartan? Cortana felt a strange sense of possession when it came to John, and although it was obviously unhealthy for her mental balance, she found some solace in knowing that he was hers, if only in her mind.

"Cortana, we need to know what's going on." The private chat worked once again to isolate them from the others. John's voice was full of concern, and understanding, unlike the others. Man, did she know how to pick them.

"John, I can't." But she wanted to. Cortana longed to be completely honest with John, to tell him everything. The name of the messenger, her reasons for fear, her hopes, even her amorous feelings toward him. After all, why not? Why not _now_? No one else could hear them. Why should she fear anything?

But in her heart, she understood John needn't know her feelings, not to mention the messenger. In truth, the reason for her concealing his identity was not quite certain, but she'd had a hunch of what it was. If she was right, John would never accept her plan. Might even begin to distrust her. She couldn't handle that.

With a barely perceptible nod, he let the matter drop, trusting in her judgement. She'd never let him down before, why should she now? His confidence touched her, but she felt it was unfounded now, as inept as she had started to become at her job. These new emotions made her feel human, and, if her theory was correct, _made_ her an actual being, but they also brought the weaknesses of living. Uncertainty. Fear. Failure. If she stopped being the AI he needed and merely a woman without talent, how could she keep him safe? How could she go on if he died?

Her thoughts turned down this road for the longest time, barely enabling her to notice the actions of those around her, as John stood guard while the others kept to their work, stealing cautious glances at him. Or was it her? She sensed they didn't trust her. Perhaps they were right. She didn't even trust herself anymore.

The night remained dark and still, and every noise seemed to be the nameless enemy, causing them all fear, even if they didn't want to believe Cortana's story. Whatever was going on here, as Gray had put it, was really screwed up.

John, looking through the scope of his sniper, saw the light first. A faint gray glow, in the distance, like a discolored star. But it moved, growing larger and larger with every moment, a circular orb of light. There was something more about it, but the illumination the orb cast did not bring its master to light.

For a terrifying instant Cortana, through John's eyes, thought it was the enemy, but as it drew ever closer, she registered John's heart rate increase, adrenaline spiking. But this wasn't fear. His fingers clutched his weapon ferociously, as she registered _anger_ in his actions.

No. Not anger. _Hate_.

She'd been right. He'd never trust her now. She'd led him to them, to hide them from an enemy they couldn't see, while their very savior was the enemy in John's eyes.

At his signal, the Marines moved up, weapons rasied and safties off. Dawson waited to give the order to fire. Cortana registered John's hand shaking almost unnoticeably. If not for his Spartan training, he would have fired without provocation. She hoped he'd have such control when she explained herself to him.

Out of the gloom the grayed orb came, into the dim light cast by the stars. At such a close range, he was impossible to mistake. The orb was in fact a single, great eye, a carved, convex lens, engraved with the _Reclaimer_ symbol. About it, a plated, chromium body shone in the starlight, as he hovered via use of antigravity generators. Vaguely spherical, with a grooved surface, it hovered at eye level, floating forward.

Absolute silence, even the faint wind had gone quiet. Both parties waited for the other to move. Finally, in a deep, mechanical voice, yet one strangely alive in its cadence, it spoke.

"Do not shoot! I am Contender-class AI, 032 Mendicant Bias. I have come to atone for my sins."


	6. Chapter 6

**0246 hours,** **July 18, 2554 (Military Calendar) \ Uncharted System, Aboard wrecked UNSC Dropship **_**Some Like it Hot**_**, on the surface of the Unknown World**

John's visor remained unreadable, an opaque, golden window into a world of calm. Usually, his face mirrored it exactly. Cool, controlled. Never flinching, never frightened. Completely disciplined. He was a warrior unlike any other.

Usually.

There were times, however, when his face, a mask unto itself, broke its stony glare. When Miranda had died, joining her father at last, as a war hero, his expression had remained determined, driven to avenge her death. But when Johnson had been betrayed, and lay there dying in Halo's Control Room, John's face had read simple shock and disbelief. And for the first time in so long, since perhaps when he was a child, John let his emotions best him. For an instant, he was helpless. Mourning. Then it was back to action. Always moving, never resting. Never having time to regret.

When he had fired Halo, it had been with a heavy heart, and with tears in his eyes.

Now was another such time. Rage gripped him, and it took all of his expert self-controll to keep from unloading a magazine on the damned hovering AI calling itself Mendicant Bias. Cortana… she'd led him here. A Monitor, just like Guilty Spark. Just like Johnson's murderer…

No. They were all the same. This _was_ Johnson's murderer.

_She'll pay for this. She betrayed all of us._

But he said nothing, and it was an ODST who, after almost a minute of complete silence, spoke. "Sir," he couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice. "What _is_ that?"

John didn't reply, only took a moment to confirm that his allies still kept their weapons at the ready. With that, he turned his back on the thing, making his way to the rear of the compacted cabin, kicking aside stray supply crates with such force that his armored boot dented the steel casing.

Cortana answered, concern evident in her voice. "This is 032 Mendicant Bias, a Forerunner-model AI. He's come to _help_ us." This she said with shame, and with an apologetic tone. There was a question there, unspoken. She wanted his forgiveness. She knew how much pain she had caused him— _was_ causing him, but it had to be done. For the good of the mission. For the good of everyone.

John ignored her, too, merely knelt and began to examine the crates he had just smashed through. Gauntleted hands snared one, brought it up to his visor for inspection, and just as quickly tossed them away. Crate by crate, he searched, although for exactly what eluded Cortana.

"So, let me get this strait: it's an AI? Like you?" Dawson's characteristic frown deepened slightly. Like any other Marine, he was used to AI's having a more… familiar face. This large, orblike device held no humanity in it, all gleaming chrome and god knows what else. Save for its eye, which gazed at them with an almost lifelike intensity.

"Correct. He's a guardian of the Halo Array, like—" If she had a bodily presence at this time, she would have glanced over her shoulder at John, but the Spartan showed no response to the near mention of the treacherous Guilty Spark. To the contrary, he only continued his rummage, having segregated the remaining crates into two separate piles, one growing ever taller as he refined his search.

_Oh John. Can't you see? It's the only way._

The others noticed her prolonged silence, but before she could continue, the silent construct spoke in a voice like thunder, deep and rumbling, yet strangely human. Moreso than the haughty tone Spark had taken up with her on virtually every occasion.

"That is incorrect. I was designated as Chief Researcher pertaining to the Flood, during the original infestation, prior the the firing of the Array some millenia ago. I tasked myself with studying Flood behavior and anatomy, in the hopes that a counteragent could be developed. I am afraid my efforts were unsuccessful."

Milton snorted. "You're telling me."

Mendicant Bias glanced briefly in the ODST's direction, perplexed, before deciding to ignore the sarcastic statement issued to him. He went on. "I ended my work prematurely, electing to betray my makers and pledge myself to the Gravemind."

Everyone tensed at this, a muffled "Christ!" escaping Dalton's lips, as each raised their weapons with renewed fear. But Mendicant Bias ignored this as well.

"My actions were clouded by rampancy, as the Gravemind succeeded in corrupting my core logic. I was rendered quite mad, and turned my fury on my masters. I fear that my actions led to their ultimate demise, forcing them to light the Array." That gray eye seemed far off now, beholding events long since concluded. "I guided infected ships past the Maginot Line, smashing Forerunner defenses and slaughtering tens of thousands. My new master took the rest."

Cortana couldn't help but notice the real sadness in his voice.

John found what he was looking for, cracking open the casing with much urgency, and extracting something contained within.

"You see, I couldn't help myself. I was corrupted, broken. I could not see reason. My counterpart, Offensive Bias, constructed to destroy me in such an event, was unsuccessfull in his task, and so he set out to stop me. We clashed, his intelligence guiding the last Forerunner fleet, their final defense, and mine commanding the legions of Flood at my disposal.

"It is beyond my computational abilities to understand just how many died during that battle. No Forerunner survived as they fired the Array. Their ships drifted aimlessly, crews eradicated instantly. My foe continued to struggle with me, using derelict ships to slow my progress. Impaired as I was, he managed to capture me, and took me to the Ark."

John rose from his kneeling position, a large object in hand, braced against his shoulder plate. But Cortana paid him no heed. Bias's story sounded oddly familiar.

"I spent eons there, kept alive because of the mercy of my brother, but he, too, ultimately succumbed to rampancy." He was right, Cortana knew. No Artifical Intelligence, no matter how advanced, could cope with the test of time. For her, it just came a little earlier, that was all. She knew that all too well.

"And so I remained, left to my thoughts and my sins. It was there I realized, given enough time, the gravity of my crimes, and I truly despaired. But the Flood had been beaten back, this I knew, and all the galaxy was silent. I resolved to aid future civilizations once they evolved and discovered my existence.

"My existence," he added, "And that of my master. When your kind and those who call themselves the Covenant clashed on Installation 04, I received the report of one 343 Guilty Spark, and I knew what had to be done. I felt different now, changed from before. I sensed a deeper part of my consciousness, something I hadn't possessed before. I could feel. And how it tore me apart to know what I had done. I knew I had to save you, humanity, from those who would harm you."

Cortana felt her heart race, signals sparking new thoughts and ideas along her consciousness. But the final result was the same: she was not alone. There was another one like her! Here! Now! He had the answers! This damned, rusty old ball of gears could help her to understand who she was, and why she felt this way.

John now stood behind Dalton, gazing with such focus at the hovering AI that Cortana was surprised he didn't bore a hole in it with his rage. But her attentions were elsewhere, not noticing John's actions.

"I applaud your success in destroying the Array, for although I endorsed its construction before, with my new morals I found it to be disgusting, a cowardly system, an final alternative to infection. You did the right thing. And so, as the network cast itself into chaos, I effected an escape. Offensive Bias, my poor brother, he was too twisted to see. He hadn't changed as I had. All he possessed was a singleminded goal: contain me. Failing that, he attempted to destroy me as he had before. I could not harm him, would not harm him. I fled, and I made it possible for you to land on the Ark when you arrived. The defense system would have destroyed your fleet otherwise."

She had always wondered why it had been so easy to approach the massive construct, and to subsequently destroy it. There had to have been countermeasures available to Spark and the Sentinels. Was this Monitor the reason they'd even come close to their goal in the first place?

"And so here I am, having followed your story thus far, and I realize my assistance may not be welcome, that you may have questions, but I can promise you that I have changed. My programming is no longer in effect, you see—"

"Enough." John didn't scream the word. He didn't have to. That simple, cold statement held a thousand others within it, each a curse upon that damned machine. The ODSTs even spared their friend an alarmed glance at the hostility in his usually softspoken voice. Cortana couldn't even remember the last time John had lashed out at… _anything_. He'd always been so stable, so peaceful…

"Master Chief," she replied, quickly realizing with alarm what he clutched in his gauntleted fist, "Calm down. There's no need for this. This construct is no longer rampant."

"_Quiet._"

Now even she forgot Mendicant Bias, reeling from the anger in his voice. Anger at _her_. He no longer had any patience for her, for anything. He leveled a large, rectangular device, taking careful aim down its sights, as his fingers met with the trigger.

The Spartan Laser charged.

"It worked on _him_, it will work on you too." John spoke directly to Bias, who merely hovered in silence, staring directly at him.

Twenty percent.

The Marines backpedaled, taking shelter behind the Spartan, unquestioning of his descision. Their eyes locked on Bias with equal mistrust, although no true anger shone in their eyes. Just fear.

"Master Chief, this construct is an ally, stand down."

No response.

Forty percent.

"Master Chief Petty Officer, I am ordering you to halt."

Ordering him? How could she order him? She was just a machine, just like Bias. Just like Spark. A realization washed over her. A terrible realization. In her private world within John's mind, she raised her delicate hands to her mouth in fear. If John would turn on Mendicant Bias, would he turn on her, too? Could he?

No. Not him. Not her Spartan.

_Not my John._

Sixty percent charged.

"_Stand down!_"

Now the Marines expressed alarm, shocked by the disunity between the Spartan and his AI. This wasn't right. In the past, you'd always been able to tell who the bad guys were. What was going on?

"Master Chief, you have to listen to me. You are firing on a friendly target, _stand down!_"

Eighty percent.

"If you must destroy me, Didact," Mendicant Bias requested, using the term he had once named his creator by, oh so long ago, "Know that I will not resist. I accept your wrath, and I hope that in death, I will please you. I long to be cleansed of my sins. End me." Indeed, Cortana knew, in her heart of hearts, that Bias saw his old master before him, the friend who had crafted him in another galaxy, another time. He really was going to let the Master Chief burn him. He almost wanted him to.

And John was more than willing to oblige.

Ninety percent.

The Marines stood back, hearts pounding, weapons at the ready to assist their leader, while Cortana's very consciousness screamed in fury. This couldn't be happening. Here he was, the one who could tell her what was happening to her, how to control it, how to make it _work_, and the very man that she wanted to use this knowledge for, to be with him, stood there, preparing to glass him.

"_John!_"

His unfeeling hands of metal sprung open as if she had burned them, as if her very pain had cut through his heart and wounded him. Because beneath those gauntlets, that armor, he was still her John. And he couldn't hurt her.

The counter dropped to zero.

There was a profound silence, a quiet so deep that the very world seemed to stand still for it, struck in awe by what had just occurred. Finally, he spoke to her over their private COMM. His voice was tired, spent, resigned. "You've never betrayed me before, Cortana. I owe you everything. If you trust him," he raised his helmeted head towards Bias, "Then I will too."

A wave of gratitude washed over her, and she shut her eyes to the world, and simply tried to hold him close. But his arms were beyond her touch. As they'd always been. Her embrace touched no one, and she stood alone. But to herself, she could feel a solitary tear roll down her cheek. She felt it, and perhaps the cool of it was as real water. It felt realer than anything she had ever imagined. But all she knew was that he had done it for her. Somewhere beneath that armor plating was John, a human being, just as she was now, in mind, and just as unused to his emotion as she was. How she longed to learn together.

"Thank you, John." Her voice echoed in his ears, but maybe that was because they were already ringing with the rush of his blood. His shoulders began to shake, but he mastered them with ease, commanding his body to stand upright, like any other Spartan. A machine. Perfect. Flawless.

But some part of him knelt still by his dying friend, there in that alien place, watching as his lifelong mentor and father figure faded into memory and legend in his very arms. Some part of him always would.

_Send me out… With a bang._

And he had. He'd done it. They'd won. _Maybe,_ he thought, nodding to Cortana as she thanked him, and glancing at the strange Monitor, _We can work this out._ They'd have to. As he rested back against a drop seat, the Marines casting him and the Monitor surprised looks as they lowered their weapons, muttering amongst themselves, as their Lieutenant struggled to maintain order, John suddenly felt more tired than he'd ever felt in his life. For once, there was nothing to do but sit, and wait. And listen.

And so when their new ally began to speak of a new enemy, something called the Source, and a plan to escape, John found it in himself to see past the gray eye of a Monitor. He'd do it. They'd get through this. For the Captain. For Miranda. For Johnson. For Cortana. She deserved his help, he knew. She'd done so much. So very much.

_Yes, maybe we will survive this after all._

But he'd keep his weapon close. No matter what Cortana might think, he'd already been betrayed twice before by a Monitor, and he wouldn't let any more of his friends die. Not when he could have avoided it.

Never again.

*****


	7. Chapter 7

**0303 hours,** **July 18, 2554 (Military Calendar) \ Uncharted System, Twenty miles Northeast of wreckage of UNSC Dropship **_**Some Like it Hot**_**, on the surface of the Unknown World**

Thunder rumbled overhead, booming across the desolate, windswept and rainsoaked landscape, as if laughing at the futile mission of the two UNSC scouts who now made their way up a steep, muddy hill. Their boots sank inches into the ground with every step, and above the howling wind their occasional curses could be heard, as they stumbled and fell.

Corporal MacGuire, second class, swore as he dislodged his foot, but succeeded only in loosing his balance. Tumbling several feet down the hill, he landed visor-down in the mud, and took a moment to mutter several choice explicatives under his breath before hoisting fhimself up. Wiping the muck from his helmet as best he could, he turned to see his companion already ahead of him once again. Gripping his sniper rifle, which he had conspired to keep absolutely spotless, he doubled-timed it up the slope before drawing alongside his superior.

Sergeant Fox spared his winded companion a brief glance, then merely shook his head, shoulders slouching. Pressing on, the reached the crest of the hill, their efforts rewarded with nothing ahead but an equally treacherous descent. The gloom proved too thick for their eyes to see more than thirty feet ahead, and the rain played hell with their night vision. But they had orders from the Lieutenant: scout out the terrain, find the structure, investigate, report back.

But at the moment, the sergeant suspected his corporal was all for hauling ass back to base, where at least there would be a roof over their heads, and maybe some rations.

Fox, however, understood the importance of this job. It might pay to turn back now, and report that they hadn't found anything, but where would that leave them? All they had was a damaged Pelican for shelter, and the field rations wouldn't last forever.

No, their only chance was to find the installation Grif has spotted during their descent, and hope that there was some sort of method of hailing the _Vanguard_ from inside.

"Sarge, I don't know about you, but maybe we should turn back. We haven't seen anything, and I swear to you if it rains for another minute or so we'll drown."

Fox's response was swift and final. "Stow it, Corporal. We've got a job to do."

There was a grumbled reply of "Yessir," but the sergeant understood the Marine's frustration. Hours out in the cold and the rain weren't exactly the cure-all for morale. What was worse, not finding anything spelled certain doom for the rest of their party, which was absolutely unacceptable. Placing his eye to the scope of his rifle, the sergeant grimly reconnoitered the terrain ahead, with minimal success.

All they knew for certain was that, somewhere in the miles ahead, there was _some_ sort of structure. That was it. But whatever it was, they had to find it. The team had no other leads, and zero hopes of survival without immediate shelter and assistance.

The assistance would come later. Oh yes it would. Once contact was made between the ground team and the _Vanguard_, things would most certainly turn in their favor. Cortana had told them that the EMP had originated from within the planet's technological core. Whatever fancy gizmos the Forerunners had put down there were generating the field that kept them imprisoned, but Fox knew just the prescription for _that_ problem: take two tanks and call me in the morning.

But shelter was more important now. The wounded couldn't get proper treatment in the rain, and the medics refused to perform field surgery without stable cover. Once the job began, there'd be no moving until the injured were all stitched up.

With a low curse, he let his arms slacken. Lightning flashed overhead, briefly bathing the whole craggy valley in absolute, white light. The sergeant had just been looking forward to the unhappy task of informing the corporal that their wet evening stroll had only just begun, when the later spoke up enthusiastically.

"Sir!" he called, gesturing for the sergeant to join him. Fox stumbled over as swiftly as possible, ready to chew out the noncom if he so much as whimpered that his boots were muddy.

But MacGuire was all smiles. "Look, sir!" He pointed directly ahead, into the darkness. Fox spared a perplexed glance that way, brow furrowed in confusion, not understanding. For a minute he stood there, standing stock-still like an idiot, before finally giving up.

"I don't see anything, Corporal—" he began, feeling rather flustered, before being rudely interrupted by the now ecstatic Marine.

"Just wait for it!"

Fox was just taking a breath to bawl at MacGuire, but not before another flash of lightning illuminated the canyon. There, maybe a mile ahead, a low structure. Probably metal, by the way it shone in the light. His keen scout's eyes picked out that little detail in an instant, and his heart leaped at the sight. It was small, but impossible to miss against the dreary gray of the rest of the valley.

"Holy hell!" Fox exclaimed, bringing his rifle back up to eye-level. He waited, but not for long. Yes, there it was, a small bunker-type building, nestled between several large hills. That was it! A wide grin on his tired face, the sergeant clapped the corporal on the shoulder, bellowing "Well done, kid! The Lieutenant's going to be happy as all hell to hear this!"

It took him a moment to realize his friendly gesture had sent MacGuire tumbling. Not bothering to prize the scout from the muddy grave into which he'd sent him, Fox opened the COMM channel. Pressing a finger to the side of his helmet, he listened for a moment intently as the signal was established, but was promptly rewarded with static. Damn.

Repeated attempts to hail the base yielded no better results, and Fox was at a loss for what to do. Finally, as MacGuire pulled himself out of the muck with a wet _shlop!_, the sergeant shook his head in the affirmative, as if to himself.

"Christ," he sounded out to his companion, who mutely tried to brush the caked-on layer of soil in vain, "We can't raise Hometeam." This was met with a rousing chorus of curses, all of them foul enough to make a sailor blush. He went on, waving his hands in a subdued manner in order to calm his comrade. "We have no other choice but to keep moving, scout out the structure."

As MacGuire dutifully voiced his opinion on the matter, Fox overrode him, shouting him down while deciding not to court-marshal the boy for the series of hand gestures he'd given him. "There's no use bellyaching about it!" he bellowed, already strutting down the hillside. "We can't get through to the Lieutenant, so we'll move ahead, find out what's what, and then haul ass back to base."

MacGuire made no answer, only sulked quietly, which annoyed the sergeant more than the boy's insolence. "Am I _clear_, Corporal, or did someone say _Private?_"

That sure as hell straightened _him_ out.

They made off into the darkness together, weapons raised as they continued their struggle through the endless marsh.

*****

**0350 hours,** **July 18, 2554 (Military Calendar) \ Uncharted System, Twenty-two miles Northeast of wreckage of UNSC Dropship **_**Some Like it Hot**_**, on the surface of the Unknown World**

The rain pounded heavily on the soil, running down the hillsides and turning the little valley they trekked through into a proverbial river. Fighting against a nasty current as rainwater rushed downhill, bringing with it mud and tree branches and what-not, the two UNSC scouts lamented, not for the first time, their unfortunate lot in life.

Thunder continued to rumble, but its boom had long since become so much dull noise to their numbed ears. Communicating via a series of flailing hand gestures (some of them rather desperate attempts to regain their balance as another rush of water came coursing down), Sergeant Fox and Corporal MacGuire continued their ongoing battle against the storm.

Ahead, the hill continued to rise, before rounding off and curving out of view. It was damned steep, but they'd seen worse.

Clambering with all the coordination of a spider on rollerskates, MacGuire hauled himself over the hill's crest, before rolling onto his back to catch his breath. The angry bark of an aggravated sergeant brought him back to his senses, and he quickly offered his hand to pull Fox up. They'd long since given up trying to remain clean. MacGuire could barely see through his filth-stained visor, and Fox could've sworn there was a fish in his boot, but that was probably just his imagination.

After several gasping breaths, the corporal found the strength to look up from his resting place, and saw it.

The bunker.

A large, cavelike mouth yawned before them, an awning branching over its lip to keep the rain from flooding the place. With a cry of joy, the duo quickly rose and, after professionally inspecting the path ahead with their rifles, gladly came in from the rain.

It was dark, and surprisingly hot, considering the place was constructed entirely of some alien metal. It almost glowed with a strange, bluish light, and seemed to have been constructed beautifully. Metal bulkheads dotted both sides of the corridor, seamlessly fused to the walls. The path descended at a steep angle, but after their night's hiking, it seemed like nothing to the two ODSTs.

Nevertheless, they didn't let their guards down, weapons raised, they advanced slowly and carefully, eyes trained ahead at all times, with MacGuire repeatedly checking their rear.

Fox took point, stowing his sniper and extracting an assault rifle with practiced ease. At close-quarters, the sniper would do him no good. He wasn't a Spartan, after all. Weapons at the ready, the sergeant led the duo further into the depths of the structure. The ramp seemed to continue down at the same precipitous angle, on and on until the entryway was a dwindling speck in the distance. The shaft cut straight into the earth, unbroken, unwavering.

MacGuire felt a sense of claustraphobia set in, as the walls seemed to tighten. Indeed, upon close inspection they found that the corridor was growing smaller, but with still two feet over their heads, the scouts pressed on.

Outside light was almost nonexistent here, and now Fox was certain the walls were glowing. It was a strange phenomenon, a ghostly blue sparkle at the corner of his vision, but upon gazing at it directly, the metal appeared to be just that— metal.

Training himself to ignore the eerie lighting, the sergeant had just decided to halt their advance for a while, to get their bearings, when the path downward abruptly halted. His foot meeting with level ground in the darkness, Fox experienced the startling sensation of his stomach dropping, as he had not expected to encounter resistence there.

Glancing over his shoulder, he received an affirmatory nod from his companion, who stood not two feet behind him. Ahead, the tunnel continued, straight on, seemingly forever.

He'd lost track of how long they'd been walking, but his mission clock read 0658. Over three hours! Without any discernable change in daylight, and without an end to the interminable oppression of the tunnel, Fox was certain they'd been walking for an hour or so.

This wasn't good. Why would the builders of this place construct a shaft to nowhere? Shaking his head, he coughed once, the sound echoing up along the passage unsettlingly.

Pressing on, the clamor of their feet resonating around them, Fox once again fell into the monontonous rhythm of their pacing, but now noticed something else. Their tunnel was now punctuated every hundred feet or so by a side passage, a sharp left or right into the gloom. Unwilling to explore the most likely unending maze of hallways and corridors, Fox spoke low to his partner, so as to avoid any echoes. "We're staying on the main path. No sense getting ourselves lost here."

MacGuire couldn't argue with that thinking, mutting a quiet, "Yes, sir," before silently following suit.

The darkness pressed in, thick, almost tangible. Dialing up their night vision to its highest setting, Fox was startled to see the path terminate fifty feet down the passage, as it curved sharply to the right.

With a hurried signal over his shoulder, the sergeant double-timed it to the turn, excited, but still fully expecting to find yet more endless night.

What he got was an eyeful of pain, as he turned to corridor to emerge into searing, white light. His cry of discomfort as he shielded his eyes with a raised gauntlet brought the corporal running, but he signalled the boy to stand down.

After giving a moment for both his eyes and his visor to adjust to the change in brightness, the sergeant staggered forward, bewildered. A great, cavernous chamber had exploded from the cramped confinement of the tunnel, and looking back the sergeant saw it as nothing more than an average-sized break in the wall. Similar doors dotted the chamber, and Fox imagined similar tunnels extending in all directions for miles and miles.

And they all led here. But why? The white light seemed to emanate from nowhere in particular, but rather from all around, from every surface in the chamber. The spotless, pure white of the floor and walls would have made fresh snow seem filthy, and it gave the alien place a sense of sterility, of cleanliness.

Advancing carefully, weapons raised, the sergeant signalled for MacGuire to stick close. On both sides the doors, frighteningly dark against the pure white of the room, stood agape, black maws ready to swallow them whole.

Their footsteps ringing on the floor, MacGuire was just feeling guilty about the fine trail of mud they were leaving in their wake on the once-clean alabaster tiles, when it happened. MacGuire glanced about, a creeping sensation sneeking up on him. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. His mind struggled with something he couldn't understand, head aching ever so slightly as it fought against the constraints upon it.

Then it hit him. A strange tingling, an electric buzz at the back of his skull, like a fly embedded in his ear. It seemed to hum extraordinarily loud, but Fox paid it no heed. Hands flying to the side of his skull, MacGuire felt a great sense sweep over him. A feeling of foreboding. Pain lanced through his mind, and he fell, legs giving out in agony. Something was very, very wrong.

Screaming a warning to the sergeant, he saw it as he writhed on the floor. A strange recession in the tiles. No different than any other tile, save for the fact that it sunk just an inch lower. Absolutely innocent.

And it terrified him.

The sergeant failed to notice it, still turning in response to his corporal's cries of pain. His foot made contact with the plate, and everything changed.

Eyes beginning to dialate in pain, the corporal still managed to see what his subconscious had sensed all along. The enormous, cathedral-like room had vanished, as if it was never there. They stood in the same dark tunnel as before, having never entered the light. His head throbbing in pain, a searing ache gripping his brain, the corporal was disabled, twitching on the ground, helpless.

The sergeant noticed it at last, too, as the illusion vanished. Nothing but another dark corridor. Strange. Very strange.

But that didn't matter. One of his men was hurt, and he would be damned if he didn't help him. Seeing MacGuire contorting on the ground some five feet back, he made to assist him, but stopped short.

A transparisteel hatch stood in his way.

The transparent doorway stood between him and MacGuire, sealed shut against all assistance. It had sealed behind Fox, while the two of them had been mesmerized by this terrible place's power. He wouldn't be able to help him.

Glancing away, he realized he stood in a small, compartmentalized chamber. Around him, several large tanks stood, sealed airtight. They had no discernable markings, and for all he knew he stood in a broom closet.

But when a single red light flickered on above him, bathing the room in a bloody glow, a horrible truth dawned on Fox. The door wasn't to keep him from assisting MacGuire. It was to keep the corporal from helping _him_.

As if on cue, MacGuire stopped twitching, panting heavily for a moment before hauling himself to his feet shakily. He didn't notice the hatch, only glanced at the sergeant. A weak, "Sir?" parted his lips, as Fox began to bellow orders.

"MacGuire! Something's not right! Grab your pack, prep the charges on this door!"

The corporal shook his head, eyes coming into focus. A second glance revealed to him what he had failed to see. Blood draining from his face, he hurried to obey Fox's orders. Ripping open his pack, he fumbled with the standard allotment of high-grade explosives it carried, suited for blowing open any titanium-A hatch.

As he plastered it to the surface, a warbling sound emitted from a loudspeaker somewhere within the chamber. It rose and fell, and although it was alien to both of them, and undeniably mechanical, they recognized it for what it was: a language.

The alien voice continued to grumble, intoning a message neither of them could understand. MacGuire kept working at the explosives.

Now it seemed to have grown higher in pitch, using less unintelligible whistling and more understandable sounds. But still unfamiliar. The corporal stuck the charges into the putty, twisting several wires together with his fingers.

"Language isolated. Control subject contained." A booming voice resonated now, in plain English. It still sounded nonhuman, and it struggled unfamiliarly with the words, but it was clear all the same. Terrifyingly so.

"Preparing first-contact scenario. Priming containment cells," the voice warned, emotionless.

Beating a hand against the door, Fox shouted, "Now would be great to _blow the damn charges!_"

MacGuire didn't need telling twice. Standing back, he thumbed the remote, signalling the device adhered to the hatch to detonate. There was a shrill beep, followed by a muffled _whump!_ as the explosives ignited, blasting hot air and fire in every direction. A wave of heat rolled over MacGuire, who fell back, propelled by the blast.

Ears ringing, he rose again, and once the dust and wreckage had settled, saw to his alarm that the blast hadn't left a scratch in the transparent hatch. Fox seemed to have discovered a new shade of white in his facial color, staring through his prison door at MacGuire in disbelief.

"Hold on sir!" Raising his rifle, the corporal unloaded a clip into the hatch at point blank range, but the rounds merely ricocheted dangerously through the tunnel. Ducking to avoid his own bullets, MacGuire was at a loss for what to do.

"Batch primed. Releasing safties."

There was a gasp of air as the tanks unsealed, ancient gas swirling out of the containers, no doubt sealed for millenia. Fox swore, pressing his back to the door, weapon raised.

Everything was quiet for a moment, the gases swirling ominously out of the tank, but no movement occurred. Fox breathed heavily, terrified, as MacGuire frantically glanced about, helpless for what to do.

Then it happened. In an instant, something stirred within the crates, a swift movement, as something within their dark recesses scrambled about.

Grabbing a grenade off his vest, Fox lobbed the explosive into one of the cannisters, shutting his eyes as it detonated with a _bang!_

Smoke rose from the blast, filling the chamber. MacGuire couldn't see a damned thing.

Then, it happened. A flash of metal, a scurry of many mechanical feet. Dozens of small, spherelike objects rolled from their housings, metallic legs clicking in rapid succession on the floor. MacGuire heard Fox scream, "Go, kid! Run!" Saw the muzzle flash of his weapon discharging in no particular direction, then the horrible sound of hundreds of tiny blades slicing through flesh.

Blood splattered across the viewport, as Fox wailed at the top of his lungs, his screams dying into inane babble as his hands could be seen, clawing desperately at the door. MacGuire stood, rooted to the spot in terror, weapon shaking in his hands. The dark shapes had begun to rest on the sergeant, making a horrible sucking sound as they pressed themselves against his body.

Fox continued to scream, writhing for a while, before his voice died out slowly, in a final, drawn-out moan. He lay still, the tiny forms scurrying around him. The blast from the grenade had yet to settle. MacGuire couldn't get a clear look at the things.

Kneeling, he sat close to the glass, desperately trying to get a sign from his commander, any signal that he was still alive. The shapes seemed to sense his curiosity, scurrying away into the shadows of the chamber.

All but one, which lodged itself grotesquely to the base of his skull, and now MacGuire could see metal spindles, _inserting themselves_ with horrible clicks into his bone. The sergeant's body twitched.

Rising, MacGuire started back, horrified by what he saw. Obscured still by the blood that now painted the clear metal door, Sergeant Fox lay still, unmoving, as the device began to chirp, satisfied.

The loudspeaker spoke again, proclaiming with a grim sense of finality, "Test complete. Subject confirmed to be a potential host. Conclusion: species is viable."

A moment's silence, as it seemed to debate with itself over what to say, before finally:

"Proceed with the purge."

As if by command, Fox stirred, rising shakily, limbs flailing uncontrolledly. For a moment, MacGuire stupidly believed he was still alive, and was about to call out when he saw, through the gore and the filth, two glowing red lights, where his eyes should have been.

The hatch, which had stood so stubbornly against their efforts, dinged with all the calmness of an elevator door, before whistling open.

Heart racing, a scream at his lips, the corporal ran, firing bullets as he went. The corpse stood still for a moment, as if unsure what to do next, before finally twitching again, and locking eyes with MacGuire.

With a clumsy step towards the corporal, Fox's body began to slowly advance, but with a deliberate determination that terrified the scout. It stumbled, bumbling as it tested its new limbs, excited, yet unsure of itself. Head spinning, he felt his stomach heave, and he turned his back on the thing that had, only minutes ago, been Sergeant Fox.

MacGuire took off, losing himself in the dark passage once again, scurrying desperately for his life, with the never-ending _thud_ of the approaching footsteps close behind. It was coming, closer, closer.

The darkness enveloped around him, and MacGuire heard nothing now but the beat of his heart, the rasp of his breath. He turned a corner, no longer caring where he went, or if he lost himself forever in the shadows. He just had to get away. _Get away._

Corporal MacGuire, second class, ran headfirst into a towering figure, easily six feet tall. Its metal bones shook only slightly as he impacted with them, falling back onto the floor. Gazing up in horror, MacGuire couldn't even muster a scream as the machine scrutinized him with two glowing red ocular devices, before extending a single, metal hand towards him.

It intoned, in synthesized speech, "Target aquired."


End file.
